Over the dim confessional cried
  Father Amatus,—cloistered young,—
Dropping his rosary by his side,
  Careless where his crucifix swung:

“I have been priest since—an endless when!
  Sat by the living, consoled the dead,
Fasted and prayed for women and men,
  Fed the poor with my daily bread.

“The wind blows cold,—how the snow...