LI.
No ray of all their silken sheen
The leaves first fledged have lost as yet:
Unfaded, near the advancing queen
Of flowers, abides the violet.
The rose succeeds; her month is come;
The flower with sacred passion red:
She sings the praise of martyrdom
And Him for whom His martyrs bled.
The perfect work of May is done:
Hard by, a new perfection waits:
The twain, a sister and a nun,
A moment parley at the grates.
The whiter Spirit turns in peace
To hide her in the cloistral shade:
'Tis time that you should also cease,
Slight carols in her honour made.
