The Convent garden lies so near <br />The road the people go, <br />If it was quiet you might hear <br />The nuns' talk, merry and low. <br /> <br />Black London trees have made their screen <br />From folk who pry and peer, <br />The sooty sparrows now begin <br />Their talk of country cheer. <br /> <br />And round and round by twos and threes <br />The nuns walk, praying still <br />For fighting men across the seas <br />Who die to save them ill. <br /> <br />From the dear prison of her choice <br />The young nun's thoughts are far; <br />She muses on the golden boys <br />At all the Fronts of War. <br /> <br />Now from her narrow Convent house <br />She sees where great ships be, <br />And plucks the robe of God, her Spouse, <br />To give the victory. <br /> <br />Under her robe her heart's a-beat, <br />Her maiden pulses stir, <br />At sound of marching in the street, <br />To think they die for her! <br /> <br />And now beneath the veil and hood <br />Her hidden eyes will glow, <br />The battle ardour's in her blood -- <br />If she might strike one blow! <br /> <br />And when she sleeps at last perchance <br />Her soul hath slipped away <br />To fields of Serbia and of France <br />Until the dawn of day. <br /> <br />She wanders by the still moonbeam <br />By dying and by dead, <br />And many a broken man will dream <br />An angel lifts his head. <br /> <br />All day and night as a sweet smoke <br />Her prayer ascends the skies <br />That all her piteous fighting folk <br />May walk in Paradise. <br /> <br />And still her innocent pulses stir, <br />Her heart is proud and high, <br />To think that men should die for her -- <br />And the marching feet go by.<br /><br />Katharine Tynan<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-convent-garden/
