Poems (Spofford)/The Nun and Harp

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THE NUN AND HARP.
What memory fired her pallid face, What passion stirred her blood,What tide of sorrow and desire Poured its forgotten floodUpon a heart that ceased to beat,Long since, with thought that life was sweetWhen 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-maidHung in the door-way, 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 highIts 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 stirOf wassailers that round them passHide 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 that purpling line.Earth seemed a place of graves that rangTo hollow footsteps, while she sang,"Drink to me only with thine eyes, And I will pledge with mine!"
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