And how, for us, were any heaven
If we, sore-stricken, saw but seven?
Kind Shepherd, as of old Thou'lt run
And fold at need a straggling one.
CONVENT ECHOES
By Helen Louise Moriarty
Clear on the air, their pulsing cadence pealing,
I hear a sweet refrain,
While o'er my thoughts a gentle mist is stealing,
And mem'ries come again,
Of quiet halls where dusk is slow descending,
Where peace has spread her wings.
Soft music in the distance only lending
More charms where twilight clings.
Anon appear the black robed nuns, their faces
Serene in sweet repose;
Across their brows the world has left no traces
Of earthly dreams or woes.
Now loud on air the organ music swelling,
They reach the chapel door—
The sweet faint incense stealing upward, telling
'Tis Benediction's hour.
Now low-bowed heads, and hearts to Him ascending
On incense laden air.
Ah surely Heaven must smile with ear attending
The nun's low whispered prayer.
