Lucy, whose day is in our darkest season, Although your name is full of light, We walkers in the murk and rain of flesh and sense, Lost in the midnight of our dead world’s winter solstice.
Look for the fogs to open on our friendly star. We have long since cut down the summer of history; Our cheerful towns have all gone out like fireflies in October. The fields are flooded and the vine is bare: How have our long days dwindled, now the world is frozen! Locked in the cold jails of our stubborn will, Oh hear the shovels growling in the gravel. This is the way they’ll make our beds forever, Ours, whose Decembers have out the sun: Doors of whose souls are shut against the summertime! Martyr, whose short day sees our winter and our Calvary, Show us some light, who seem forsaken by the sky: We have so dwelt in darkness that our eyes are screened and dim, And all but blinded by the weakest ray. Hallow the vespers and December of our life, O martyred Lucy: Console our solstice with your friendly day.
