With fearful fluttered hearts we wait—
We meet him, bathed in tears;
We are so loath to leave behind
Those tranquil convent years;
So loath to meet the pang, to take
(On some poor chance of bliss)
Life's labour on the windy sea
For a bower as still as this.
Weeping we mount the crowded aisle,
And weeping after us
The bridesmaids follow—Come to me!
I will not meet you thus,
Pale rider to the convent gate.
Come, O rough bridegroom, Death,
Where, bashful bride, I wait you, veiled,
Flush-faced, with shaken breath;
I do not fear your kiss. I dream
New days, secure from strife,
And, bride-like, in the future hope—
A quiet household life.
[ 49 ]
