Classic Poem

I' the silent convent-garden
Walked forth a maiden pale;
Sad, 'neath the moon, she seemed;
Each eyelid's trembling veil
With tears of passion gleamed.

" They tell me that my true-love
Is dead; 'tis well for me.
Again my love may burn.
An angel now is he;
Nuns may for angels yearn. "

With trembling steps she hastened
To Mary's sacred shrine;
In sunshine bright it stood.
With mother-look benign
The maiden pure She viewed.

She, fainting, sank before it
Looked up with face composed
Until her eye-lids pale
At length in death were closed;
Down dropped her streaming veil.