November 10. Abelard to Heloise.

Dear Sister in Christ: God send you peace from Heaven! I would that to your restless heart His blessed peace was given, And that you found In contemplation of His love Balm for that wound That ever frets you sore. 'Twere meet you wore Much sack cloth, And with scourge and fasting drove This passion from your soul.... Christ's Bride thou art; Therefore give Him the whole. I charge thou keep'st back not any part Of His just due to spend upon a worm.... Nay, woman! would'st thou bring on me a curse For that I stand between thy soul and God?... Thy love for me is but a thing perverse. Cast it forth from thee, or a heavy rod May prove that God is still a jealous God. But that you are a woman, and infirm Of will and purpose, I should say Some bitter words to purge you of this sin! Natheless each day I painful penance do For that 'twas I who led you first astray— (For which great sin may He my soul assoil!) And wrestle mightily each night in prayer That Christ may yet your stubborn heart subdue To His sweet will, and—the sharp fret and coil Of earth cast forth—He then may enter in To find a garnished chamber, and an altar fair.... —Nay, now, bethink you! Love like yours is grievous sin, And the time wasteth swift toward death. All love is but a breath Which clouds the glass that we see darkly through— When you to Heaven shall win And there see face to face your risen Lord, Wilt know 'twas but the hot fume of a word Spake by a devil, dimmed your earthly glass.... In essence love is sin!— Save only love of God. It is a gin, Set by the Evil One to snare the feet Of those who haste toward Heaven, By its false likeness to the spiritual love, And by it man is driven Down the steep slope to Hell. 'Tis thus when sanctioned by the Church; how then Of love like thine, which is accursed of men, And doubly cursed by God?... Last night in dreams I trod Up the long windings of the heavenly stair, And heard the angels singing loud and sweet, And neared the gate, when sudden both my feet Were caught amid the tangles of thy hair,— Spread like a cruel web across my path,— In which I struggled, mad with woe and wrath, And could not free me; so at last I fell, Stumbling and plunging down to blackest Hell, Wherein I cursed the hour I saw thy face, And most I cursed the hour, the day, the place When thou didst give me love.... Waking then, I strove For holier thoughts, and could at last forgive The wrong thou didst me. But no more, I prithee, vex me with thy tale Of love. It wearieth me, and henceforth I must live In larger peace, or I may not prevail Within the Schools Against the babbling of the narrow fools Who blindly are withstanding my new light Upon the Divine Essence's nature, and my clasp Of the ringed Trinitarian mysteries. Matters your slight Woman's comprehension may not grasp.... Farewell. Neglect not prayer.