Where the fair nun lay coffin’d, in the rest
That wakes not up at morning; she is there
An image of cold calm! One tress of hair
Lingereth lonely on her snowy brow;
But the bright eyes are closed in darkness now;
And their long lashes delicately rest
On the pale cheek, like sun-rays in the west,
That fall upon a colorless sad cloud.
Humility lies rudely on the proud,
But she was never proud; and there she is,