Page:The poems of George Eliot (Crowell, 1884).djvu/343

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That is your way of singing, Agatha;

Just as the nightingales pour forth sad songs,

And when they reach men's ears they make men's hearts

Feel the more kindly.

.

Nay, I cannot sing:

My voice is hoarse, and oft I think my prayers

Are foolish, feeble things; for Christ is good

Whether I pray or not—the Virgin's heart

Is kinder far than mine; and then I stop

And feel I can do naught toward helping men,

Till out it comes, like tears that will not hold,

And I must pray again for all the world.

'T is good to me—I mean the neighbors are:

To Kate and Nell too. I have money saved

To go on pilgrimage the second time.

And do you mean to go on pilgrimage

With all your years to carry, Agatha?

.

The years are light, dear lady: 't is my sins

Are heavier than I would. And I shall go

All the way to Einsiedeln with that load:

I need to work it off.

What sort of sins,

Dear Agatha? I think they must be small.

.

Nay, but they may be greater than I know;

'T is but dim light I see by. So I try