An excerpt from "New House:  An Invention":

Disclaimer:  The characters and writers named in the documents comprising "New House" are fictional.

                                             The Life of Gwenllian

Translated from the Brown Book of New House by Edward Evans, with this head note: "Gwenllian is the other great saint of New House, and the one we know more reliably. The celebrated distichs are all that we have of Elias's teaching, and as to his life, no more than inferences may be drawn from the spare testimony of the chronicles or the analogy of other Celtic monks of the heroic age. We do not know the author of the Life of Gwenllian, but there is evidence that this work was composed not long after Gwenllian's death, by someone who knew her or was close to those how knew her. It is in Welsh, in traditional stanzas, and its language permits us to date it as thirteenth century. The author assumes knowledge of some facts about Gwenllian such as we find in the Chronicle of New House Abbey. Those facts are that she was born to a family of noble pedigree in Ceredigion, that at the age of sixteen she entered a convent of Cistercian nuns which had been founded by New House twenty years after Cistercian monks came there, that she was an exemplary religious much given to mystical prayer, that she urged others to practice contemplation, addressing a letter to Innocent III on the subject, that she died on May 3, 1219, at the age of 24. What impressed all who met her was her gravity, her composure, her sanity, the plainness and moderation of her approaches to holiness. She accomplished nothing except to act on her premises of belief in Jesus and obedience to His love. As the Gospels indicate, that is enough. This translation is in prose. The stanza form used in the Welsh poem appears also in contemporary praise poems celebrating a noble patron or beautiful woman. Each stanza begins with the name Gwenllian."

Gwenllian names the Creator of the whole world as her father and does not blush to be reminded that her parents have a farm south of the river Aeron: I cannot pass in this body to the moon to look at God, I cannot fail to see God walking on the hills where I was born.

Gwenllian approaches Jesus as a sister draws near to her brother when both are young and apprehensive of the dangers of night and fire: My brother listens to my whispers and we tremble together to see a hawk's shadow cross the limewhite wall.

Gwenllian laughs when dawn evokes the psalms of the hour of prime in concert with birds who have been singing since night began to fail: I offer my voice to Three Persons who have summoned me to stand at the edge of the world and greet the sun.

Gwenllian does not exclude a doe or an ass or the goats of Llaneliasdynewydd or the pigs of Cantref Fawr from those with whom she toils: What is my task today but mending robes for the wealthy and helping to knead the dough of the poor?

Gwenllian writes to the Pope in Rome that it would befit him to encourage Normans as well as Egyptians to lift their eyes to the east: The spirit of God is instruction in the scriptures and the power of God is the administering of the rites of holy church.

Gwenllian unfolds the linens of the altar with both her right hand and her left and lays them out upon the altar stone as one who prepares a body for burial: When her sisters repair to her for a sign of reassurance, she gazes into the eyes of each and they are awakened from the mists of midday darkness.

Gwenllian obeys the infirmarian who governs her in her illness, but she does not obey the counselor who bids her lament that pain disables her: I am able when I am not able, and there are thousands who are weaving and making bread.

Gwenllian's body lies at New House, but Gwenllian walks beyond the moon and looks at God: I choose to be careful of the duties of this House and to attend to the needs of those who come here.

Gwenllian is soft as new wool and pale as a new leaf, but she is fat and strong as a grain of wheat bursting: Where is the one who has given me a heart so that all my longing is to lose myself?

Gwenllian is gone and her voice no longer rises like candle flame in our midst nor does she go about our cloister: The door opens and I see a rabbit scurrying and the earth is fragrant with coming summer and I depart.