Classic Poem

Within the convent grim and gray,
And ivy-grown,
She liveth on, from day to day,
Life's monotone.

She leaveth oft the ancient pile
And passeth by.
Yet I have never seen her smile
Nor caught her eye.

Her hands are very white and small,
And those who know
Say that on Fever's brow they fall
Like flakes of snow.

They say her voice is soft and sweet
In Sorrow's ear,
Wooing the soul to Mary's feet
From doubt and fear.

Ah me! And yet her youthful face,
Clad though it be
In cold religion's saintly grace,
Is fair to see.

Her eyes, so modestly cast down,
So introspect,
Could light a smile or arm a frown
With dire effect.

'Tis just such orbs that steadiest burn
With passion's fire;
Can all the tears in Virtue's urn
Quite quench desire?

Her mouth is red, and shaped for bliss;
It seems a loss
That it should only kiss and kiss
Her rosary cross.

Oh, Little Nun! Thou art too fair!
It had sufficed
If one less sensuously rare
Had wed thy Christ.

The devil oft in form of saint
Entraps the eyes;
Thou art a soul without attaint
In devil's guise!