(Cont.d)or on his return
to Martha’s, exhausted, toward evening,
to watch the rain falling slowly
upon the seeded earth,
there, before the wide open door,
while wheat fields wavered in the wind,
Down in the grotto...
Martha doing chores, Mary on her knees,
her soul hanging on her lips, listening to you...
Oh for every thing
he had a loving glance, a caress,
beautiful like the petal of a rose
beneath the thorns
of the pricking crown, or on the robe
thin and torn by pilgrims...
Only once...
I always think of it, in church,
There were no women praying anywhere...
Right through the naves,
the sun was setting, tingeing
the wooden architraves with red.
Inside the chorus