THE CONFESSIONAL
My Sorrow diligent would sweep
That dingy room infest
With dust (thereby I mean my soul)
Because she hath a Guest
Who doth require that self-same room
Be garnished for His rest.
And Sorrow (who had washed His feet
Where He before had been)
Took the long broom of Memory
And swept the corners clean,
Till in the midst of the fair floor
The sum of dust was seen.
It lay there, settled by her tears,
That fell the while she swept—
Light fluffs of grey and earthy dregs;
And over these she wept,
For all were come since last her Guest
Within the room had slept.
And, for nor broom nor tears had power
To lift the clods of ill,
She called one servant of her Guest
Who came with right good will,
For, by his sweet Lord’s bidding, he
Waiteth on Sorrow still;
Who, seeing she had done her part
As far as in her lay
And had intent to keep the place
More cleanly from that day,
Did with his Master’s dust-pan come
And take the dust away.