This poem was inspired by the thought of a young nun who struggles with worldly passions. Even though she is not wholly innocent, she appears to be (or at least that is how the theory of poetry works here); and she is "good".
Vespers, old as evening, creak with prayer.
The novice child, in jet and Whistler white,
her scansion slow along the Rectory stair,
is dulcet cadence, soft as candlelight.
Angelic hosts surround the Diocese.
With flaming swords they smite the antebellum
shade where she, alone beneath the trees
in meditation dreams: Virum me natam vellem.
Her window frames the flight of swallows
swarming in dark morning on the trellis.
They restrain the light that Vespers follows
with prayers: O verbo dic, quid est quod me velis.
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