The Pilgrim
Put by the sun my joyful soul,
We are for darkness that is whole;
Put by the wine, now for long years
We must be thirsty with salt tears;
Put by the rose, bind thou instead
The fiercest thorns about thy head;
Put by the courteous tire, we need
But the poor pilgrim’s blackest weed;
Put by—a’beit with tears—thy lute,
Sing but to God or else be mute.
Take leave of friends save such as dare
Thy love with Loneliness to share.
It is full tide. Put by regret.
Turn, turn away. Forget. Forget.
Put by the sun my lightless soul,
We are for darkness that is whole.
