All pleased, but most the silent solitude;
The still Franciscan walking slow and grave,
The absent life wherein no cares intrude,
Obedient, chaste and poor—alone with sea
And sky and clouds and winds and God’s still voice;
Unvexèd by the clamorous world, and free
For worship and for work, to die or to rejoice.
‘I would not choose,’ she said, ‘this quiet life;
But if my wheels were broken in the race,
If, having done my best, I failed in the strife,