Too Late

'O Virgins, very lovely in your troop,
O Virgins, very lovely, very white.
How is it that your lilies droop?
How is it that the lamps you bear are not alight?

Why are you bending downward from the hill?
Bright is it on the hill as for a feast.'
Trembling they sped as to fulfil
Some grievous prophecy; nor heeded me the least.

Downward they passed .... Oh, they were very fair,
But stricken as the frosted leaves to doom!
Their eyes I saw .... Bright with despair
Their eyes were very lamps to light them to their doom.

Full were their looks of love and sorrowing
As they passed by me, shaking out a spell
Of sighs, of balms. And is it such a thing
Can be, that they were hurrying to Hell?