At The Convent Gate

Wistaria blossoms trail and fall

Above the length of barrier wall;

And softly, now and then,

The shy, staid-breasted doves will flit

From roof to gateway-top, and sit

And watch the ways of men.

The gate's ajar. If one might peep!

Ah, what a haunt of rest and sleep

The shadowy garden seems!

And note how dimly to and fro

The grave, gray-hooded Sisters go,

Like figures seen in dreams.

Look, there is one that tells her beads;
And yonder one apart that reads
A tiny missal's page;
And see, beside the well, the two
That, kneeling, strive to lure anew
The magpie to its cage!

Not beautiful—not all! But each
With that mild grace, outlying speech,
Which comes of even mood;—
The Veil unseen that women wear
With heart-whole thought, and quiet care,
And hope of higher good.

"A placid life—a peaceful life!
What need to these the name of Wife?
What gentler task (I said)—
What worthier—e'en your arts among—
Than tend the sick, and teach the young,
And give the hungry bread?"

"No worthier task!" re-echoes She,
Who (closelier clinging) turns with me
To face the road again:
—And yet, in that warm heart of hers,
She means the doves', for she prefers
To "watch the ways of men."

Henry Austin Dobson (1840-1921)

Source:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Henry_Austin_Dobson
http://www.gutenberg.org/files/24334/24334-h/24334-h.htm#Page_36

Photo:
The Framework Blog