FROM the nun’s wan life a buried passion
Blossomed like a grave-rose in her face;
“ Sweet, my child,” she said, “ in what fair fashion
Do you mean to wear this lovely lace ?

“ Thus? ” — and, with a feverish hand and shaken,
Round her head the precious veil she wound.
“Faith in man,” she said, “ I have forsaken;
Faith in God most surely I have found.
“ Yet, with music in the dewy distance
And the whole land flowering at my feet,
Through this convent-garment’s dark resistance
Backward I can hear my fierce heart beat.
“ Tropic eyes too full of light and languor,
Northern soul too gray with Northern frost:
Ashes — ashes after fires of anger —
Love and beauty —what a world I lost! ”
“ Sister,” laughed the girl with girlish laughter,
“ Sister, do you envy me my veil? ”
“You may come to ask for mine hereafter,”
Answered very piteous lips and pale.
“No; for your black cross is heavy bearing;
Tedious counting these stone beads must be.
Oh, but there are jewels worth the wearing
Waiting in the sunny world for me!
“ Sister, have a care — you are forgetting.
Do not broider thorns among my flowers,
Only buds and leaves: your tears are wetting
All my bridal lace.” They fell in showers.
After years and years, beside the grating,
(Oh, that saddest sight, young hair grown gray!)
With dry boughs and empty winds awaiting
At the cloister door, came one to pray.
“ Sister, see my bride-veil! there were never
Thorns so sharp as those within its lace.
Sister, give me yours to wear forever;
Give me yours, and let me hide my face.”
Sallie M. B. Piatt.