To-night the little girl-nun died.
Her hands were laid
Across her breast; the last sun tried
To kiss her quiet braid;
And where the little river cried,
Her grave was made.
The little girl-nun’s soul, in awe,
To where her brother Christ she saw,
Under the Living Tree;
He sighed, and his face seemed to draw
Her tears, to see.
He laid his hands on her hands mild,
And gravely blessed;
“Blind, they that kept you so,” he smiled,
With tears unguessed.
“Saw they not Mary held a child
Upon her breast?”