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The Young Novice Post by :berle1 Category :Poems Author :Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon Date :September 2011 Read :1917

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The Young Novice

The lights yet gleamed on the holy shrine, the incense hung around,
But the rites were o'er, the silent church re-echoed to no sound;
Yet kneeling there on the altar steps, absorbed in ardent prayer,
Is a girl, as seraph meek and pure--as seraph heav'nly fair.

The blue eyes, veiled by the lashes long that rest on that bright cheek
Are humbly bent, while the snow-white hands are clasped in fervor meek,
While in the classic lip and brow, each feature of that face,
And graceful high-bred air, is seen she comes of noble race.

But, say, what means that dusky robe, that dark and flowing veil,
The silver cross--oh! need we ask? they tell at once their tale:
They say that, following in the path that fair as she have trod,
She hath renounced a fleeting world, to give herself to God.

Her sinless heart to no gay son of this earth hath she given,
Her's is a higher, holier lot, to be the Bride of Heaven;
And the calm peace of the cloister's walls, abode of humble worth,
Is the fit home for that spotless dove, too fair, too pure for earth.

(The end)
Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon's poem: Young Novice

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Recuerdo Recuerdo

We were very tired, we were very merry-- We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry. It was bare and bright, and smelled like a stable-- But we looked into a fire, we leaned across a table, We lay on a hill-top underneath the moon; And the whistles kept blowing, and the dawn came soon. We were very tired, we were very merry-- We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry; And you ate an apple, and I ate a pear, From a dozen of each

After The Ball After The Ball

After The Ball
Silence now reigns in the corridors wide,The stately rooms of that mansion of pride;The music is hushed, the revellers gone,The glitt'ring ball-room deserted and lone,--Silence and gloom, like a clinging pall,O'ershadow the house--'tis after the ball.Yet a light still gleams in a distant room,Where sits a girl in her "first season's bloom;"Look at her closely, is she not fair,With exquisite features, rich silken hairAnd the beautiful, child-like, trusting eyesOf one in the world's ways still unwise.The wreath late carefully placed on her browShe has flung on a distant foot-stool now;The flowers, exhaling their fragrance sweet,Lie crushed and withering at her feet;Gloves