Of sin, my flesh, which I despise and hate,

I had not stinted practice, O my God.

For not alone this pillar-punishment,

Not this alone I bore: but while I lived

In the white convent down the valley there,
For many weeks about my loins I wore

The rope that haled the buckets from the well,
Twisted as tight as I could knot the noose,
And I spake not of it to a single soul,
Until the ulcer, eating through my skin,
Betray'd my secret penance, so that all
My brethren marvell'd greatly. More than this
I bore, whereof, O God, thou knowest all.
Three winters, that my soul might grow to thee
I lived up there on yonder mountain side.
My right leg chain'd into the crag, I lay
Pent in a roofless close of ragged stones,
Inswath'd sometimes in wandering mist, and twice
Black'd with thy branding thunder, and sometimes
Sucking the damps for drink, and eating not,
Except the spare chance-gift of those that came

To touch my body and be heal'd, and live.

And they say then that I work'd miracles,

Whereof my fame is loud amongst mankind,

Cured lameness, palsies, cancers. Thou, O God, Krowest alone whether this was or no.

Have mercy, mercy; cover all my sin.

Then, that I might be more alone with thee,
Three years I lived upon a pillar, high

Six cubits, and three years on one of twelve;
And twice three years I crouch'd on one that rose
Twenty by measure; last of all, I grew

Twice ten long weary weary years to this,

That numbers forty cubits from the soil.

I think that I have borne as much as this

Or else I dream

and for so long a time,

If I may measure time by yon slow light,

And this high dial, which my sorrow crowns

So much

- even so.

And yet I know not well,

For that the evil ones come here, and say,

"Fall down, O Simeon: thou hast suffer'd long and for ages!" then they prate

For

ages

Of penances I cannot have gone thro',

Perplexing me with lies; and oft I fall,
Maybe for months, in such blind lethargies,
That Heaven, and Earth, and Time are choked.

Bethink thee, Lord, while thou and all the saints
Enjoy themselves in heaven, and men on earth
House in the shade of comfortable roofs,

But yet

Sit with their wives by fires, eat wholesome food,
And wear warm clothes, and even beasts have stalls,
I, 'tween the spring and downfall of the light,
Bow down one thousand and two hundred times
To Christ, the Virgin Mother, and the Saints;
Or in the night, after a little sleep,

I wake the chill stars sparkle; I am wet
With drenching dews, or stiff with crackling frost.
I wear an undress'd goatskin on my back ;
A grazing iron collar grinds my neck;
And in my weak, lean arms I lift the cross,
And strive and wrestle with thee till I die:
O mercy, mercy! wash away my sin.

O Lord, thou knowest what a man I am;
A sinful man, conceived and born in sin :

Ha! ha!

'Tis their own doing; this is none of mine;
Lay it not to me. Am I to blame for this,
That here come those that worship me?
They think that I am somewhat. What am I?
The silly people take me for a saint,

And bring me offerings of fruit and flowers:

And I, in truth (thou wilt bear witness here)
Have all in all endured as much, and more
Than many just and holy men, whose names
Are register'd and calendar'd for saints.

Good people, you do ill to kneel to me.
What is it I can have done to merit this?
I am a sinner viler than you all.

It may be I have wrought some miracles,

And cured some halt and maim'd; but what of that? It may be, no one, even among the saints,

May match his pains with mine. But what of that?

Yet do not rise: for you may look on me,

And in your looking you may kneel to God.
Speak! is there any of you halt or maim'd?

I think you know I have some power with Heaven
From my long penance: let him speak his wish.

Yes, I can heal him. Power goes forth from me.

They say that they are heal'd. Ah, hark! they shout

"St. Simeon Stylites." Why, if so,

God reaps a harvest in me.

O my soul,

God reaps a harvest in thee.

If this be,

Can I work miracles and not be saved?

This is not told of any. They were saints.

It cannot be but that I shall be saved;

Yea, crown'd a saint. They shout, "Behold a saint!"

And lower voices saint me from above.

Courage, St. Simeon! This dull chrysalis

Cracks into shining wings, and hope ere death

Spreads more and more and more, that God hath now Sponged and made blank of crimeful record all

My mortal archives.

O my sons, my sons,

I, Simeon of the pillar, by surname
Stylites, among men ; I, Simeon,

The watcher on the column till the end;
I, Simeon, whose brain the sunshine bakes;
I, whose bald brows in silent hours become
Unnaturally hoar with rime, do now