Classic Poem

A lady tall and frail and rare,
She comes wind-blown along the street;
From places far and otherwhere,
She comes on swift and gentle feet,
And though she wears no snowy hood,
Nor trailing robe—I know she should.

For she has walked down shadowed halls,
Past pointed windows—known soft bells,
Dwelt in great peace behind white walls,
With sorrow that she never tells,
And made those glad who crossed her way,
Pale fluttering nuns, in white and gray.