The Heart's Morning

Be still, my heart! Make not a noise
That shall claim me.
I would not listen unto thy sorrowing.
I would not know the sorrows that be mine.
I would wash me clean in the purge of tears,
Not o'er mine own anguish,
But o'er the wounds of earth.
I have become not keen.
I have become dull of the day. Yea,
My flesh is seared with the lash of the hours,
And I have ceased to listen unto thee, my heart.
What mine eyes have wept o'er
No longer causeth me tears. What my heart
Hath hungered for, no longer knoweth me.
Oh, the day hath become dull, and I am
A grey-robed monk hidden within my cowl,
Looking upon my day within the shadow hidden.
Be still, my heart! I would not listen unto thee;
I am no longer thirsted,
And thou needst not cry aloud for drink,
For the water hath come unto my hand,
And I have retreated into the shadow of
The cooling wood. Yea, I no longer stalk
The highways crying out for-Him.
Behold, I no longer rebuke thee.
Sorrows are transformed,
And aged woes have become young.
Yea, I have thrown my cowl, and see the morrow
Speeding from the gate of eternity,
With her wings spread, hastening toward me.
Oh, with outstretched arms I await her!
Be still my heart!
No longer I list unto thy complaining.
I am resurrected in the mercy of His smile!
Cease thy murmuring, and sing!