THE ABBOT OF UNREASON.

By Elizabeth Stoddard

I looked over the balustrade —

The twilight had come —

And saw the pretty waiting-maid

Kiss Roland, the page.

My lady heard the wolf-dog's chain

Clank on the floor;

Sly Roland caught it up again,

And whistled a song.

Oh! they think that my heart is cold,

Under my gown;

Not till I blacken into mould

Will it cease to burn.

Burn, burn for such sweet red lips!

I am almost mad,

Even to touch her finger tips,

When we meet alone.

Roland, the page, goes here and there,

Loving, and loved,

Women like his devil-may-care,

Till they are forgot!

Whether I am in castle or inn,

With sinner or saint,

Never can I a woman win,—

I am but a priest!