Classic Poem

Think ye the desolate must live apart.
By solemn vows to convent-walls confined?
Ah! no; with men may dwell the cloister'd heart,
And in a crowd the isolated mind;
Tearless behind the prison-bars of fate,
The world sees not how desolate they stand,
Gazing so fondly through the iron grate
Upon the promised yet forbidden land;
Patience, the shrine to which their bleeding feet
Day after day in voiceless penance turn;
Silence, the holy cell and calm retreat,
In which unseen their meek devotions burn;
Life is to them a vigil which none share,
Their hopes a sacrifice, their love a prayer.