The monk

I go with silent feet and slow

As all my black-robed brothers go;

I dig awhile and read and pray,

So portion out my pious day

Until the evening time and then

Work at my book with cunning pen.

If she should turn to me awhile,

If she would turn to me and smile,

My book would be no more to me

Than some forgotten phantasy,

And God no more unto my mind

Than a dead leaf upon the wind.