"Oh, who be ye that doubtful tread
⁠And listless through the glad array?
"With languid look, with drooping head,
⁠In all this rout of ladies gay?
Ye walk with them, but not as they,
⁠Ye tarry sadly in their tents,
"Why fare ye thus half-hearted, say?"—
⁠"We are St. Satan's Penitents!

"A straiter path we once would tread,
⁠Through wilds that knew not of the May,
The loads that weighed on us like lead,
⁠"We bore through thorns and sloughs of clay.
No time had we to pause or play
⁠With music of glad instruments,
But still we clambered: Well-a-day!
⁠We are St. Satan's Penitents.

​"'The path is over steep,' we said,
⁠'The rueful skies are ashen gray,
And over harshly are we sped,
⁠Still upward! Ne'er a stop nor stay!'
We cast our burdens all away,
⁠We fled adown the steep ascents,
We were aweary of that way;
⁠We are St. Satan's Penitents."

Fair is the path, and bright the day,
⁠Where now we whisper our laments ;
With backward glance we go astray,
⁠We are St. Satan's Penitents.