The Monastery.

Beyond the wall the passion flower is blooming,         Strange hints of life along the winds are blown;     Within, the cowled and silent men are kneeling         Before an image on a cross of stone,     And on their lifted faces, wan as death,     I read this simple message of their faith:                 "The trail of flame is ashen,                     And pleasure's lees are gray,                 And gray the fruit of passion                     Whose ripeness is decay;                 The stress of life is rancor,                     A madness born to slay;                 They only miss its canker                     Who live with God and pray."     Beyond the wall lies Babylon, the mighty;         Faint echoes of her songs come drifting by;     Within there is a hymn of consecration,         A psalm that lifts the fervent soul on high;     And yet, sometimes, where bows the hooded choir,     There comes the old call of the World's Desire:                 "The rose's dust is ashen                     Be petals white or red,                 And vain the sighs of passion                     When summer's light is fled;                 The garden's fruitful measure                     Is crowned with bloom today;                 They only miss its treasure                     Who turn their hearts away."