The Convent Garden

The Convent garden lies so near

    The road the people go,

If it was quiet you might hear

    The nuns' talk, merry and low.

Black London trees have made their screen

    From folk who pry and peer,

The sooty sparrows now begin

    Their talk of country cheer.

And round and round by twos and threes

    The nuns walk, praying still

For fighting men across the seas

    Who die to save them ill.

From the dear prison of her choice

    The young nun's thoughts are far;

She muses on the golden boys

    At all the Fronts of War.

Now from her narrow Convent house

    She sees where great ships be,

And plucks the robe of God, her Spouse,

    To give the victory.

Under her robe her heart's a-beat,

    Her maiden pulses stir,

At sound of marching in the street,

    To think they die for her!

And now beneath the veil and hood

    Her hidden eyes will glow,

The battle ardour's in her blood --

    If she might strike one blow!

And when she sleeps at last perchance

    Her soul hath slipped away

To fields of Serbia and of France

    Until the dawn of day.

She wanders by the still moonbeam

    By dying and by dead,

And many a broken man will dream

    An angel lifts his head.

All day and night as a sweet smoke

    Her prayer ascends the skies

That all her piteous fighting folk

    May walk in Paradise.

And still her innocent pulses stir,

    Her heart is proud and high,

To think that men should die for her --

    And the marching feet go by.