Walter Murdoch (1874–1970). The Oxford Book of Australasian Verse. 1918.
47. Forgiveness
A
The wet world vanished in the gloom;
The dim and silver end of day
Scarce glimmered through the little room.
Such things to her who knew not sin—
The sharp ache throbbing in my head,
The fever running high within.
Sin’s darker sense I could not bring:
My soul was black as night to me;
To her I was a wounded thing.
She drew me softly nigh her chair,
My head upon her knees to lay,
With cool hands that caressed my hair.
And looked with grave, ethereal eyes;
Ensouled by ancient Quietness,
A gentle priestess of the Wise.