In the deep cloister of the night, a nun,
My gentle Love, thou walk'st; and from thy soul
All traces of our earthly passions roll
In that serene devotion, which begun
When the bright west was painted by the sun,
And deepened more and more, as round the pole
Wheeled all the gathered stars,--and softly stole
Yon thin, pale crescent through the vapors dun.
No thought perplexes now thy quiet breast,
Not the sweet trouble of thy love for me;
Or if, perchance, that breaks thy sacred rest,
Down through thy spirit sinks it tranquilly,
A wavering light, half-hidden, half confessed,
Like a pearl sinking through a lucid sea.