The Nun and Harp

Harriet Prescott Spofford (1835–1921)

WHAT memory fired her pallid face,

What passion stirred her blood,

What tide of sorrow and desire

Poured its forgotten flood

Upon a heart that ceased to beat,

Long since, with thought that life was sweet,

When nights were rich with vernal dusk,

And the rose burst its bud?

Had not the western glory then

Stolen through the latticed room,

Her funeral raiment would have shed

A more heart-breaking gloom;

Had not a dimpled convent-maid

Hung in the doorway, half afraid,

And left the melancholy place

Bright with her blush and bloom!

Beside the gilded harp she stood,

And through the singing strings

Wound those wan hands of folded prayer

In murmurous preludings.

Then, like a voice, the harp rang high

Its melody, as climb the sky,

Melting against the melting blue,

Some bird’s vibrating wings.

Ah, why, of all the songs that grow

Forever tenderer,

Chose she that passionate refrain

Where lovers ’mid the stir

Of wassailers that round them pass

Hide their sweet secret? Now, alas,

In her nun’s habit, coifed and veiled,

What meant that song to her!

Slowly the western ray forsook

The statue in its shrine;

A sense of tears thrilled all the air

Along the purpling line.

Earth seemed a place of graves that rang

To hollow footsteps, while she sang,

“Drink to me only with thine eyes,

And I will pledge with mine!”