There is a painting of a youthful monk
Who sits within a walled and cloistered nook,
His breviary closed, and listens, sunk
In day-dreams, to a viol,—with a look
Of strange regret fixed on two pairing doves,
Who find their fate and simple natural loves.
Yet bonds of gold, linked hands, and chancel vows,
Even spousal beds, do not a marriage make.
When such things chain the soul that never knows
Love’s mating, little vantage shall it take,