At The Convent Gate.

Wistaria blossoms trail and fall     Above the length of barrier wall;     And softly, now and then,     The shy, staid-breasted doves will flit     From roof to gateway-top, and sit     And watch the ways of men.     The gate's ajar. If one might peep!     Ah, what a haunt of rest and sleep     The shadowy garden seems!     And note how dimly to and fro     The grave, gray-hooded Sisters go,     Like figures seen in dreams.     Look, there is one that tells her beads;     And yonder one apart that reads     A tiny missal's page;     And see, beside the well, the two     That, kneeling, strive to lure anew     The magpie to its cage!     Not beautiful--not all! But each     With that mild grace, outlying speech,     Which comes of even mood;--     The Veil unseen that women wear     With heart-whole thought, and quiet care,     And hope of higher good.     "A placid life--a peaceful life!     What need to these the name of Wife?     What gentler task (I said)--     What worthier--e'en your arts among--     Than tend the sick, and teach the young,     And give the hungry bread?"     "No worthier task!" re-echoes She,     Who (closelier clinging) turns with me     To face the road again:     --And yet, in that warm heart of hers,     She means the doves', for she prefers     To "watch the ways of men."