John Everett Millais. St Agnes' Eve---Ah, bitter chill it was!
The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold; The hare limp'd trembling through the frozen grass, And silent was the flock in woolly fold: Numb were the Beadsman's fingers, while he told His rosary, and while his frosted breath, Like pious incense from a censer old, Seem'd taking flight for heaven, without a death, Past the sweet Virgin's picture, while his prayer he saith. His prayer he saith, this patient, holy man; Then takes his lamp, and riseth from his knees, And back returneth, meagre, barefoot, wan, Along the chapel aisle by slow degrees: The sculptur'd dead, on each side, seem to freeze, Emprison'd in black, purgatorial rails: Knights, ladies, praying in dumb orat'ries, He passeth by; and his weak spirit fails To think how they may ache in icy hoods and mails.
That ancient Beadsman heard the prelude soft; And so it chanc'd, for many a door was wide, From hurry to and fro. So, purposing each moment to retire, She linger'd still. John William Godward - The complete works. Johnwilliamwaterhouse.com. John William Waterhouse Paintings 50% Off.