Poems (Stoddard)/The Abbot of Unreason

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THE ABBOT OF UNREASON.
I LOOKED over the balustrade— The twilight had come—And saw the pretty waiting-maid Kiss Roland, the page.
My lady heard the wolf-dog's chain Clank on the floor;Sly Roland caught it up again, And whistled a song.
Oh! they think that my heart is cold, Under my gown;Not till I blacken into mould Will it cease to burn.
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Burn, burn for such sweet red lips! I am almost mad,Even to touch her finger tips, When we meet alone.
Roland, the page, goes here and there, Loving, and loved,Women like his devil-may-care, Till they are forgot!
Whether I am in castle or inn, With sinner or saint,Never can I a woman win,— I am but a priest!
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