Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
A Convent Wothout God
A prison is a convent without God.
Poverty, Chastity, Obedience
Its precepts are. In this austere abode
None gather wealth of pleasure or of pence.
Woman's light wit, the heart's concupiscence
Are banished here. At the least warder's nod
Thy neck shall bend in mute subservience.
Nor yet for virtue--rather for the rod.
Here a base turnkey novice--master is,
Teaching humility. The matin bell
Calls thee to toil, but little comforteth.
None heed thy prayers or give the kiss of peace.
Nathless, my soul, be valiant. Even in Hell
Wisdom shall preach to thee of life and death.
Wilfrid Scawen Blunt's Other Poems
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Comments about this poem (A Convent Wothout God by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt )
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Still I Rise
Edgar Allan Poe
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings
William Ernest Henley
- hey ass-wipe, i love you, Mandolyn ...
- The Mystery Of Word, Bazi alis Subrata Ray
- Men who see no day, Zimba Sundrogo
- Handsome and king, hasmukh amathalal
- Stoned by sadness, Nalini Chaturvedi
- The Goodness of a Life-mate (Section-6 .., rajendran muthiah
- Heart to, hasmukh amathalal
- An Ode to my Tree, Kelly Curiel
- foliage, snehanair manikkath
- Love Lures Life! - sonnet-, Manjeshwari P MYSORE