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ARTHUR WILLIAM EDGAR O'SHAUGHNESSY
Her passing touch was death to all,
Her passing look a blight; She made the white rose-petals fall,
And turn'd the red rose white.
��Her pale robe clinging to the grass
Seem'd like a snake That bit the grass and grounds, alas!
And a sad trail did make. She went up slowly to the gate,
And then, just as of yore, She turn'd back at the last to wait
And say farewell once more.
��GERARD MANLEY HOPKINS 834 Heaven-Haven
A nun takes the veil
��I
��HAVE desired to go Where springs not fail, To fields where flies no sharp and sided hail And a few lilies blow.
��And I have asked to be
Where no storms come, Where the green swell is in the havens dumb,
And out of the swing of the sea.
�� �
