[BNP/E3, 49A3 – 34]

Our lady of Useless Tears,

Thine is my soul's best[1] shrine…

I am grey[2] with the gorging years,

I am drunk with the worthless wine

Of having {…} cares and fears,

For a life that I feel not mine

__________

It is useless to pray to thee,

For my mother’s love is disdained 

O virgin of {…} 

Thy smile is glad without pain.[3]

Give me that I may be

Thy little mad child again.[4]

___

My sense of me is all tears.

I pity my heart too much!

O a cradle for my fears…

And the hem of thy garment to clutch!

O wert thou alive and near us,

And thy hand a hand that could touch!

[34v]

I do not know how to pray.

My heart is a torn pall.

See how my hair grows grey.

O teach my lips to call

On thy name night and day

|As if that were life’s all.|

My fathers' faith doth rise

To my lips this |heavy| hour.

I pray to thee with mine eyes

Rosaries of anguish. O dower

My soul with a least sweet lies

Of thy suffering son's power!

I have forgotten the taste

Of faith, and ache for and a prayer.

My heart is a garden laid waste…

O thy hand on my hair

Like a mother's hand let rest

And let me die with it there!

 
[1] best /lost\
[2] grey /sick\
[3] For my mother’s love is disdained /But my heart is full of pain\

O virgin of {…} /Thy look /glance\ could be charity,\

Thy smile is glad without pain. /Even if the look were disdain\
[4] Thy little mad child again. /A child like [to] thine again.\