To Hopkins’ Nun

I came for the quiet-mindedness beneath a veil,

And for the silence of the vines creeping yearly among themselves,

Breeze tapping on the panes of small high windows.

I came for the hum, sweetly sun warmed, of the gardens

And the hymns of chanters cooled by chapel shadows

And for the dusty vines shrouding the old stones.

The odor of grass and sun air filled me

And I moved in the contentment of warm dreams.

Then when the leaves fell and the sun fell before the bells,

The wind wailed wild and I stared out

And saw the lightened trees burn white against the sky.

And on my panes hard clattered hail.

Good Frere, I see. The calm that follows wind alone is real.

Quiet springs do fail, and storms prevail.

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