Lord Byron

On A Nun

Of two fair virgins, modest, though admired, Heaven made us happy; and now, wretched sires, Heaven for a nobler doom their worth desires, And gazing upon either, both required. Mine, while the torch of Hymen newly fired Becomes extinguish’d, soon – too soon – expires: But thine, within the closing grate re­tired, Eternal captive, to her God aspires. But thou at least from out the jealous door, Which shuts between your never – meet­ing eyes, May’st hear her sweet and pious voice once more: I to the marble, where my daughter lies, Rush, – the swoln flood of bitterness I pour, And knock, and knock, and knock but none replies.

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