What hath she uttered that should make me dread — That brown-robed Abbess with her beads soft-told Who hath her seat upon the fragrant mould And sees the gliding Centuries perfected? Naught. Only good things saying, she, with head Bowed to her task submissively, doth fold An era by for every bead of gold, And smileth on the glory of the Dead. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...FIRELIGHT by KATHERINE MANSFIELD EVENTIDE by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON IVY by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON THE ARABIAN SHAWL by KATHERINE MANSFIELD THE MAN WITH THE HOE OUTWITTED by EDWIN MARKHAM CANTICLE OF THE RACE by EDGAR LEE MASTERS THE ROOM OF MIRRORS by EDGAR LEE MASTERS |