No ray of all their silken sheen
The leaves first fledged have lost as yet
Unfaded, near the advancing queen
Of flowers, abides the violet.
The rose succeeds — her month is come:—
The flower with sacred passion red:
She sings the praise of martyrdom,
And Him for whom His martyrs bled.
The perfect work of May is done:
Hard by a new perfection waits:—
The twain, a sister and a nun,
A moment parley at the grates.
The whiter Spirit turns in peace
To hide her in the cloistral shade:—
‘ Tis time that you should also cease,
Slight carols in her honour made.