Knowest 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, О Simeon: thou hast suffer’d long

For ages and for ages!’ then they prate

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.

But yet

Bethink thee, Lord, while thou and all the saints

Enjoy themselves in heaven, and men on earth

House in the shade of comfortable roofs,

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:

О mercy, mercy! wash away my sin.

O Lord, thou knowest what a man I am;

A sinful man, conceived and born in sin:

’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? Ha! ha!

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. О 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.

О my sons, my sons,