Compose yourself and rest to-night.
You think we nuns are good to tend
The sick, to count our beads, and pray,
But that we do not comprehend
How worldly people dread delay
In getting word from those they love:
Why, sir, you know not what you say—
Ah! this dark robe too well doth prove
The sorrow of that by-gone[4] day—
No, no; I fully understand