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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=507053" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Ursula</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">There is a village in a southern land,<br>By rounded hills closed in on every hand.<br>The streets slope steeply to the market-square,<br>Long lines of white-washed houses, clean and fair,<br>With roofs irregular, and steps of stone<br>Ascending to the front of every one.<br>The people swarthy, idle, full of mirth,<br>Live mostly by the tillage of the earth.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Upon the northern hill-top, looking down,<br>Like some sequestered saint upon the town,<br>Stands the great convent.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">On a summer night,<br>Ten years ago, the moon with rising light<br>Made all the convent towers as clear as day,<br>While still in deepest shade the village lay.<br>Both light and shadow with repose were filled,<br>The village sounds, the convent bells were stilled.<br>No foot in all the streets was now astir,<br>And in the convent none kept watch but her<br>Whom they called Ursula. The moonlight fell<br>Brightly around her in the lonely cell.<br>Her eyes were dark, and full of unshed woe,<br>Like mountain tarns which cannot overflow,<br>Surcharged with rain, and round about the eyes<br>Deep rings recorded sleepless nights, and cries<br>Stifled before their birth. Her brow was pale,<br>And like a marble temple in a vale<br>Of cypress trees, shone shadowed by her hair.<br>So still she was, that had you seen her there,<br>You might have thought you were beholding death.<br>Her lips were parted, but if any breath<br>Came from between them, it were hard to know<br>By any movement of her breast of snow.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But when the summer night was now far spent,<br>She kneeled upon the floor. Her head she leant<br>Down on the cold stone of the window-seat.<br>God knows if there were any vital heat<br>In those pale brows, or if they chilled the stone.<br>And as she knelt, she made a bitter moan,<br>With words that issued from a bitter soul, -<br>`O Mary, Mother, and is this thy goal,<br>Thy peace which waiteth for the world-worn heart?<br>Is it for this I live and die apart<br>From all that once I knew? O Holy God,<br>Is this the blessed chastening of Thy rod,<br>Which only wounds to heal? Is this the cross<br>That I must carry, counting all for loss<br>Which once was precious in the world to me?<br>If Thou be God, blot out my memory,<br>And let me come, forsaking all, to Thee.<br>But here, though that old world beholds me not,<br>Here, though I seek Thee through my lonely lot,<br>Here, though I fast, do penance day by day,<br>Kneel at Thy feet, and ever watch and pray,<br>Beloved forms from that forsaken world<br>Revisit me. The pale blue smoke is curled<br>Up from the dwellings of the sons of men.<br>I see it, and all my heart turns back again<br>From seeking Thee, to find the forms I love.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">`Thou, with Thy saints abiding far above,<br>What canst Thou know of this, my earthly pain?<br>They said to me, Thou shalt be born again,<br>And learn that worldly things are nothing worth,<br>In that new state. O God, is this new birth,<br>Birth of the spirit dying to the flesh?<br>Are these the living waters which refresh<br>The thirsty spirit, that it thirst no more?<br>Still all my life is thirsting to the core.<br>Thou canst not satisfy, if this be Thou.<br>And yet I dream, or I remember how,<br>Before I came here, while I tarried yet<br>Among the friends they tell me to forget,<br>I never seemed to seek Thee, but I found<br>Thou wert in all the loveliness around,<br>And most of all in hearts that loved me well.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">`And then I came to seek Thee in this cell,<br>To crucify my worldliness and pride,<br>To lay my heart's affections all aside,<br>As carnal hindrances which held my soul<br>From hasting unencumbered to her goal.<br>And all this have I done, or else have striven<br>To do, obeying the behest of Heaven,<br>And my reward is bitterness. I seem<br>To wander always in a feverish dream<br>On plains where there is only sun and sand,<br>No rock or tree in all the weary land,<br>My thirst unquenchable, my heart burnt dry.<br>And still in my parched throat I faintly cry,<br>Deliver me, O Lord: bow down Thine ear!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">`He will not answer me. He does not hear.<br>I am alone within the universe.<br>Oh for a strength of will to rise and curse<br>God, and defy Him here to strike me dead!<br>But my heart fails me, and I bow my head,<br>And cry to Him for mercy, still in vain.<br>Oh for some sudden agony of pain,<br>To make such insurrection in my soul<br>That I might burst all bondage of control,<br>Be for one moment as the beasts that die,<br>And pour my life in one blaspheming cry!'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The morning came, and all the convent towers<br>Were gilt with glory by the golden hours.<br>But where was Ursula? The sisters came<br>With quiet footsteps, calling her by name,<br>But there was none that answered. In her cell,<br>The glad, illuminating sunshine fell<br>On form and face, and showed that she was dead.<br>`May Christ receive her soul!' the sisters said,<br>And spoke in whispers of her holy life,<br>And how God's mercy spared her pain and strife,<br>And gave this quiet death. The face was still,<br>Like a tired child's, that lies and sleeps its fill.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Robert+Fuller+Murray">Robert Fuller Murray</a><div class=q>
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By rounded hills closed in on every hand.
The streets slope steeply to the market-square,
Long lines of white-washed houses, clean and fair,
With roofs irregular, and steps of stone
Ascending to the front of ..."></div>
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