The North Transept: The Psalms XVII

Still let me cull thy flowers of Paradise,
Sweet flowers, that ever bloom on Sorrow's brink,
Water'd with penitence and holy sighs ;
And when within me my weak soul doth sink,
Oft at thy living fountains let me drink,
Springs which no wintry fetters can repress,
Nor sun, nor scorching whirlwind, cause to shrink. —
I hew'd me wells in the world's wilderness,
Wearied and worn I sought, and found but bitterness.