ONCE MORE ARE WE, MY WIFE, IN BONDS MADE FAST

Once more are we, my wife, in bonds made fast,
Not wrought by idle speech nor seeking vain,
But by the inmost truth held firm and vast—
By honest vow, and love that shall remain.

There was a sign when first our glances met,
While leagues beneath like fleeting shadows fled;
Thy voice invoked Demeter’s thrall—and yet,
And mine as well—from death recalled, though dead.

Did I then hold thee by thy fingers’ ends,
Or touch thy cheeks?—the memory is gone;
Yet something stirred where sinful longing bends,
And in those kisses innocence lived on;

Thy frame, yet innocent, I drew thee nigh,
And nearer still that fateful hour I drew;
When for past sins beneath the omophorion high
We answered, and came forth as death’s own few.

A day, a night—unto the Refectory shrine
We bore the vows our trembling souls confessed;
Through prayer the holy relics gave a sign,
And blessed speech released what once oppressed.

And, taking icons from the bishop’s hand,
We issued forth to those who waiting stood;
Two hearts beat low, as if by one command,
And eyes shone bright—as through new-fallen snow they would.