I KNOW a girl of presence fresh and fair. She lies abed year-long, and so has lain For half a lifetime; flower-sweet the air; The room is darkened to relieve her pain. There is no hope held out of healing her, You could not blame her if she turned her face Sullen unto the wall, and did demur From further breathing in her prison-place. Not so: her sick-bed is a throne, wherefrom She doth most royally her favors grant; Thither the needy and the wretched come, She is At Home to every visitant. They call her @3Little Sister:@1 for her heart Goes out to each that takes her by the hand, In sisterly devotion; 'tis her part To feel, to succor, and to understand. Unto her dim-lit chamber how they flock, The seamy folk, the weakling and the base! There is no sin so low that she will mock, No shame that dare not look her in the face. One never thinks of woe beside her bed, So blithe she bends beneath the rigorous rod; She does not seem like one uncomforted, Her prayers like songs go bubbling up to God. Hers is the inner secret of the soul; Radiant renouncement, love and fellow cheer, -- These things do crown her like an aureole, Making her saintly, while they make her dear. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...DAWN AT LEXINGTON by KATHARINE LEE BATES HASTINGS' SONNETS: 3 by SAMUEL EGERTON BRYDGES KENMURE'S ON AND AWA' by ROBERT BURNS ON THE STAIR by RICHARD EUGENE BURTON THE VETERAN; MAY, 1916 by MARGARET ISABEL POSTGATE COLE NIGHT GOES RUSHING BY by HILDA CONKLING ON THE REFUSAL OF OXFORD TO SUBSCRIDBE TO HIS TRANSLATION by WILLIAM COWPER A LETTER TO THE LADY CAREY, AND MRS. ESSEX RICHE, FROM AMYENS by JOHN DONNE |