The yellow book: an illustrated quarterly (3.1894)

274

A Ballad of a Nun

Long ere she left her cloudy bed,
Still dreaming in the orient land,
On many a mountain's happy head
Dawn lightly laid her rosy hand.
The adventurous sun took Heaven by storm ;
Clouds scattered largesses of rain ;
The sounding cities rich and warm,
Smouldered and glittered in the plain.

Sometimes it was a wandering wind,
Sometimes the fragrance of the pine,
Sometimes the thought how others sinned,
That turned her sweet blood into wine.

Sometimes she heard a serenade
Complaining sweetly far away :
She said, " A young man woos a maid " ;
And dreamt of love till break of day.
Then would she ply her knotted scourge
Until she swooned ; but evermore
She had the same red sin to purge,
Poor, passionate keeper of the door !

For still night's starry scroll unfurled,
And still the day came like a Hood :
It was the greatness of the world
That made her long to use her blood.

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