The Nuns
A WOODLAND cloister rude and desolate,
Grim shapes of anguish hooded in despair:
Half-crazed with horror, yet enthralled, they stare
Where, fallen hellward from his holy state,
The pale young priest beside the altar stands.
Unto the night his gibbering lips rehearse
A litany satanic and perverse.
The golden monstrance shudders in his hands...
They dare not call upon the Holy Name,
Lest, crashing as the thunder on the main,
God's anger smite them with His sword of flame.
And so they leer, eternally the same,
Called in what crevice of thy tortured brain,
Prodigious child, from nothingness to pain?
Grim shapes of anguish hooded in despair:
Half-crazed with horror, yet enthralled, they stare
Where, fallen hellward from his holy state,
The pale young priest beside the altar stands.
Unto the night his gibbering lips rehearse
A litany satanic and perverse.
The golden monstrance shudders in his hands...
They dare not call upon the Holy Name,
Lest, crashing as the thunder on the main,
God's anger smite them with His sword of flame.
And so they leer, eternally the same,
Called in what crevice of thy tortured brain,
Prodigious child, from nothingness to pain?
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