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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=342194" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Silver Box</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Old tales of valour fire our blood<br>But this, the bravest deed I know<br>Is written of our modern times,<br>No myth of long ago.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">It was a convent grim and grey,<br>Whose vine-clad balconies looked down<br>On stately old Colonial homes<br>Of a fair Southern town.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And daughters of those grand old homes<br>Dwelt, humble Nuns, within its shade,<br>Serving their Lord with zealous hearts,<br>Joyous and unafraid.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">From the dear Rectress, staid and old<br>To the small novice whose sweet eyes<br>Held the soft blue of Mary’s cloak<br>Or flowers of Paradise.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Peaceful and holy ran their lives<br>Hallowed by sacrifice and prayer,<br>Until one summer day did come<br>A fateful message there.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">A letter from a brave young Priest,<br>The Rectress’ nephew, who, long while<br>Had toiled alone ‘mid leper folk<br>In a West Indian Isle.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The horrors of that festering hell<br>He told Ah! There were women there<br>Deep sunk in suffering and in sin<br>Who needed women’s care.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The good Nun read with blanching face,<br>And well her wisdom could divine<br>The cry for help he dared not ask<br>The breathed in every line.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">She could not bid her daughters loved<br>Such awful sacrifice to make;<br>But should one feel impelled to give<br>Her life, for Jesus sake,</div><div style="margin:10px 0">“I’ll place.” She said. “this silver box,<br>Before the chapel alter where<br>Such one may place her name therein<br>In quiet and secret there.”</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The convent was a silent place<br>For all that long, long summer day,<br>Though in the garden old, the bees<br>Hummed round nasturtiums gay.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But tasks were done and prayers were said<br>In thoughtful silence, faithfully<br>The merry little novice e’en,<br>Went slowly and solemnly.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">A thing of fate, the little box<br>Lay bright upon the alter stair,<br>The silver lamp before Our Lord<br>Shone on it sparkling there.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Next morn they waited after Mass<br>To hear the chaplain grave proclaim<br>On opening the casket there<br>If it held any name.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And in the rear a little group<br>Off anxious fathers, mothers pale,<br>Who knew the story of the box<br>Waited to hear the tale.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Oh! Wondrous faith of Peter’s fold<br>That can such fruitage bear-<br>The little box was very full<br>No name was missing there.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">From the dear Rectress staid and old<br>To the small novice, who bright eyes<br>Mirrored the blue of Mary’s cloak<br>Of flowers of Paradise.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Alice+Guerin+Crist">Alice Guerin Crist</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=342194" data-title="The Silver Box de Alice Guerin Crist" data-description="Old tales of valour fire our blood
But this, the bravest deed I know
Is written of our modern times,
No myth of long ago.

It was a convent grim and grey,
Whose vine-clad balconies looked down
On stately old Colonial homes
Of a fair Southern town...."></div>
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