The Nun and Harp

What memory fired her pallid face, What passion stirred her blood, What tide of sorrow and desire Poured its forgotten flood Upon a heart that ceased to beat, Long since, with thought that life was sweet, When nights were rich with vernal dusk, And the rose burst its bud? Had not the western glory then Stolen through the latticed room, Her funeral raiment would have shed A more heart-breaking gloom; Had not a dimpled convent-maid Hung in the doorway, half afraid, And left the melancholy place Bright with her blush and bloom! Beside the gilded harp she stood, And through the singing strings Wound those wan hands of folded prayer In murmurous preludings. Then, like a voice, the harp rang high Its melody, as climb the sky, Melting against the melting blue, Some bird’s vibrating wings. Ah, why, of all the songs that grow Forever tenderer, Chose she that passionate refrain Where lovers ’mid the stir Of wassailers that round them pass Hide their sweet secret? Now, alas, In her nun’s habit, coifed and veiled, What meant that song to her! Slowly the western ray forsook The statue in its shrine; A sense of tears thrilled all the air Along the purpling line. Earth seemed a place of graves that rang To hollow footsteps, while she sang, “Drink to me only with thine eyes, And I will pledge with mine!”