Orison

Pity my absence on
The threshold of my will!
My soul is helpless, wan,
With white inactions ill.

In tasks abandoned stands
My soul with sobbing pale,
O'er shut things its tired hands
Tremble without avail.

And while my heart breathes out
Bubbles of lilac dreams,
My soul is wafted about
In a wax moon's watery gleams;

In a moonlight where glimmer the lorn
Lilies of the to-morrows;
A moonlight where nothing is born
But its hands in the shadow of sorrows.