Classic Poem

O placid nun!
That lov'st, immured within thy sparry cell,
Whose moist roof makes the crystal floor a well,
To count the drip-falls one by one,
Thy echoing beads and bell,
Which rings thee to perpetual orison
And keeps thy grotto awful with the knell.

Thy breathless prayer
Comes not from thy still lips, but stedfast eyes
In far-world thought fixt on the distant skies;
Eve's solemn winds hymn for thee there,
Sweet Dawn thy matin sighs:
With tranquil breast that heaved not her soft hair
On simple mosses so much beauty lies!

Greeting thee dim
The pale moon lights with transient smile thy cave
And Purity oft comes to drink thy wave;
Here the shy woodmaid, bending slim,
Puts off her weed to lave;
Titania and her elfin meiny trim
Swarm here, cool shelter from the sun to crave.

Hither betimes,
With leaf-light step upon the frosted dews,
Wanders that Queen of Song the poet woos,
Like Nymph to Nun, in Celtic climes
Turned Sylph from sylvan Muse;
O, if thy Sister hear, into his rhymes
Thou, with her spirit wild, thy calm infuse.