A Convent Wothout God

By Wilfrid Scawen Blunt

A prison is a convent without God.

Poverty, Chastity, Obedience

Its precepts are. In this austere abode

None gather wealth of pleasure or of pence.

Woman's light wit, the heart's concupiscence

Are banished here. At the least warder's nod

Thy neck shall bend in mute subservience.

Nor yet for virtue--rather for the rod.

Here a base turnkey novice--master is,

Teaching humility. The matin bell

Calls thee to toil, but little comforteth.

None heed thy prayers or give the kiss of peace.

Nathless, my soul, be valiant. Even in Hell

Wisdom shall preach to thee of life and death.