to one joining the convent
When in the borrowed narrow room of stone,
(As all the convents of my mind are made
Of weighty bricks of something permanent),
You place remains of what you used to own
About in cenotaphic ornament
To mark what for a contemplated post
You left our far more gaudily arrayed
Position, understand no grandeur lost.
This thing you know already. It is we,
The blind unconscious cloisterers, who need
Reminders of a world too full to fill.
The slate severity we try to flee
You’ve chosen for your home; the raucous thrill
We cannot clasp though all around us, you
Caress in quiet like a rosary bead,
Amongst your cell’s distractions, which are few.