The cloisters old, expounded on their walls
With paintings, the Beatic Verity,
The which--adorning their religious halls,
Enriched the frigidness of their Austerity.
In days when Christian seeds bloomed o'er the land,
Full many a noble monk unknown to-day,
Upon the field of tombs would take his stand,
Exalting Death in rude and simple way.
My soul is a tomb where--bad monk that I be--
I dwell and search its depths from all eternity,
And nought bedecks the walls of the odious spot.
Oh sluggard monk! when shall I glean aright
From the living spectacle of my bitter lot,
To mold my handywork and mine eyes' Delight?