" Show me your cloister, " asks the Lady Poverty of the friars. And they, leading her to the summit of
a hill, showed her the wide world, saying: " This is our cloister: O Lady Poverty! "
Well, that were a cloister: for its bars
Long strips of sunset, and its roof the stars.

Four walls of sky, with corridors of air
Leading to chapel, and God everywhere.

Earth beauteous and bare to lie upon,
Lit by the little candle of the sun.

The wind gone daily sweeping like a broom —
For these vast hearts it was a narrow room.
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