It is a place monastic, set above The city's pride and pleasuring below; The benediction of the sky breathes love Over the olive trees and vines a-row. The old gray walls are dedicate to prayer And silence; in the corridors dim-lit Lurks many a painting,, many a fresco rare Done by some brother for the joy of it. Pale lavender and red pomegranate trees, Roses and poppies spilling garden sweets; And tall lush grasses and grain, and, circling these, The cool cloistral walks and shadowed seats. By a sun-dial in the center, rests One brown-robed Father; and his lips recite Some holy word; little he heeds the jests Of those who make the world their chief delight. While Florence, far below, from dreamy towers Throws back the sun and tolls the tranquil hours. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE VACANT CAGE (1) by CHARLES TENNYSON TURNER OSTRA by ELLEN FRANCES BALDWIN HEAUTONTIMOROUMENOS by CHARLES BAUDELAIRE HIS VICTORY by HARRY RANDOLPH BLYTHE KATE'S MOTHER by ROBERT SEYMOUR BRIDGES |