He sat beside that lonely grave for long, He took its grasses in his trembling hand, He toyed with them and wet them with his tears, He read the name again, and still again,
He thought a thousand thoughts, and then he thought It all might be a dream — then rubbed his eyes And read the name again to be more sure; Then wondered and then wept — then asked himself:
“What means it all? Can this be Ethel's grave? I dreamed her soul had fled. Was she the white dove that I saw in dream Fly o'er the sleeping sea so long ago?”
The convent bell Rang sweet upon the breeze, and answered him His question. And he rose and went his way Unto the convent gate; long shadows marked
One hour before the sunset, and the birds Were singing Vespers in the convent trees. As silent as a star-gleam came a nun In answer to his summons at the gate;
Her face was like the picture of a saint, Or like an angel's smile; her downcast eyes Were like a half-closed tabernacle, where God's presence glowed; her lips were pale and worn
By ceaseless prayer; and when she sweetly spoke, And bade him enter,‘ twas in such a tone As only voices own which day and night Sing hymns to God.
She locked the massive gate. He followed her along a flower-fringed walk That, gently rising, led up to the home Of virgin hearts. The very flowers that bloomed
Within the place, in beds of sacred shapes, ( For they had fashioned them with holy care, Into all holy forms — a chalice, a cross, And sacred hearts — and many saintly names,
That, when their eyes would fall upon the flowers, Their souls might feast upon some mystic sign ), Were fairer far within the convent walls, And purer in their fragrance and their bloom
Than all their sisters in the outer world. He went into a wide and humble room — The floor was painted, and upon the walls, In humble frames, most holy paintings hung;
Jesus and Mary and many an olden saint Were there. And she, the veil-clad Sister, spoke: “I'll call the mother,” and she bowed and went. He waited in the wide and humble room,
The only room in that unworldly place This world could enter; and the pictures looked Upon his face and down into his soul, And strangely stirred him. On the mantle stood
A crucifix, the figured Christ of which Did seem to suffer; and he rose to look More nearly on to it; but he shrank in awe When he beheld a something in its face
Like his own face. But more amazed he grew, when, at the foot Of that strange crucifix he read the name —
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