Sister Saint Magdalen

ANNE REEYE ALDRICH

I MET you in the street to-day, In sombre robe and cloak and wimple. The folds of white around your chin Strove all in vain to hide its dimple.

You held a basket in the hand

That once clasped mine in stress of passion. A small child from your parish school, Tramped by your side in stolid fashion.

Strange World! I little dreamed that you, For one sweet hour of love and folly,

Must cleanse your soul by penances, And dreary nights of melancholy.

I wonder if, in your chill cell,

The lips that kissed mine never falter, And through the solemn hours repeat The hymns and rosary and psalter.

In vain l asked your eyes to-day,— As quick as thought you dropped your lashes.

Perhaps 't was fancy made me dream That fire still slept beneath the ashes.

Ah, well, the night grows cold; my pipe Is almost out. I wonder, wonder

What memories haunt your heart to-night, What convent roof you're sheltering under.

If in your prayers my graceless name Is whispered in the silence nightly,

'T is man's return for too much love To hold the heaped-up measure lightly.

T is—God knows what it is; but I, Who with a smile such lot assigned you,

Would scale your convent wall to-night, And kiss and kill you, could I find you!

This poem is published by permission of G. P. Putnam's Sons.