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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=343759" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Book Of Hours Of Sister Clotilde</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">The Bell in the convent tower swung.<br>High overhead the great sun hung,<br>A navel for the curving sky.<br>The air was a blue clarity.<br>Swallows flew,<br>And a cock crew.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The iron clanging sank through the light air,<br>Rustled over with blowing branches. A flare<br>Of spotted green, and a snake had gone<br>Into the bed where the snowdrops shone<br>In green new-started,<br>Their white bells parted.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Two by two, in a long brown line,<br>The nuns were walking to breathe the fine<br>Bright April air. They must go in soon<br>And work at their tasks all the afternoon.<br>But this time is theirs!<br>They walk in pairs.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">First comes the Abbess, preoccupied<br>And slow, as a woman often tried,<br>With her temper in bond. Then the oldest nun.<br>Then younger and younger, until the last one<br>Has a laugh on her lips,<br>And fairly skips.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">They wind about the gravel walks<br>And all the long line buzzes and talks.<br>They step in time to the ringing bell,<br>With scarcely a shadow. The sun is well<br>In the core of a sky<br>Domed silverly.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Sister Marguerite said: 'The pears will soon bud.'<br>Sister Angelique said she must get her spud<br>And free the earth round the jasmine roots.<br>Sister Veronique said: 'Oh, look at those shoots!<br>There's a crocus up,<br>With a purple cup.'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But Sister Clotilde said nothing at all,<br>She looked up and down the old grey wall<br>To see if a lizard were basking there.<br>She looked across the garden to where<br>A sycamore<br>Flanked the garden door.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">She was restless, although her little feet danced,<br>And quite unsatisfied, for it chanced<br>Her morning's work had hung in her mind<br>And would not take form. She could not find<br>The beautifulness<br>For the Virgin's dress.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Should it be of pink, or damasked blue?<br>Or perhaps lilac with gold shotted through?<br>Should it be banded with yellow and white<br>Roses, or sparked like a frosty night?<br>Or a crimson sheen<br>Over some sort of green?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But Clotilde's eyes saw nothing new<br>In all the garden, no single hue<br>So lovely or so marvellous<br>That its use would not seem impious.<br>So on she walked,<br>And the others talked.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Sister Elisabeth edged away<br>From what her companion had to say,<br>For Sister Marthe saw the world in little,<br>She weighed every grain and recorded each tittle.<br>She did plain stitching<br>And worked in the kitchen.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'Sister Radegonde knows the apples won't last,<br>I told her so this Friday past.<br>I must speak to her before Compline.'<br>Her words were like dust motes in slanting sunshine.<br>The other nun sighed,<br>With her pleasure quite dried.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Suddenly Sister Berthe cried out:<br>'The snowdrops are blooming!' They turned about.<br>The little white cups bent over the ground,<br>And in among the light stems wound<br>A crested snake,<br>With his eyes awake.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">His body was green with a metal brightness<br>Like an emerald set in a kind of whiteness,<br>And all down his curling length were disks,<br>Evil vermilion asterisks,<br>They paled and flooded<br>As wounds fresh-blooded.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">His crest was amber glittered with blue,<br>And opaque so the sun came shining through.<br>It seemed a crown with fiery points.<br>When he quivered all down his scaly joints,<br>From every slot<br>The sparkles shot.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The nuns huddled tightly together, fear<br>Catching their senses. But Clotilde must peer<br>More closely at the beautiful snake,<br>She seemed entranced and eased. Could she make<br>Colours so rare,<br>The dress were there.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The Abbess shook off her lethargy.<br>'Sisters, we will walk on,' said she.<br>Sidling away from the snowdrop bed,<br>The line curved forwards, the Abbess ahead.<br>Only Clotilde<br>Was the last to yield.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">When the recreation hour was done<br>Each went in to her task. Alone<br>In the library, with its great north light,<br>Clotilde wrought at an exquisite<br>Wreath of flowers<br>For her Book of Hours.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">She twined the little crocus blooms<br>With snowdrops and daffodils, the glooms<br>Of laurel leaves were interwoven<br>With Stars-of-Bethlehem, and cloven<br>Fritillaries,<br>Whose colour varies.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">They framed the picture she had made,<br>Half-delighted and half-afraid.<br>In a courtyard with a lozenged floor<br>The Virgin watched, and through the arched door<br>The angel came<br>Like a springing flame.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">His wings were dipped in violet fire,<br>His limbs were strung to holy desire.<br>He lowered his head and passed under the arch,<br>And the air seemed beating a solemn march.<br>The Virgin waited<br>With eyes dilated.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Her face was quiet and innocent,<br>And beautiful with her strange assent.<br>A silver thread about her head<br>Her halo was poised. But in the stead<br>Of her gown, there remained<br>The vellum, unstained.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Clotilde painted the flowers patiently,<br>Lingering over each tint and dye.<br>She could spend great pains, now she had seen<br>That curious, unimagined green.<br>A colour so strange<br>It had seemed to change.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">She thought it had altered while she gazed.<br>At first it had been simple green; then glazed<br>All over with twisting flames, each spot<br>A molten colour, trembling and hot,<br>And every eye<br>Seemed to liquefy.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">She had made a plan, and her spirits danced.<br>After all, she had only glanced<br>At that wonderful snake, and she must know<br>Just what hues made the creature throw<br>Those splashes and sprays<br>Of prismed rays.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">When evening prayers were sung and said,<br>The nuns lit their tapers and went to bed.<br>And soon in the convent there was no light,<br>For the moon did not rise until late that night,<br>Only the shine<br>Of the lamp at the shrine.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Clotilde lay still in her trembling sheets.<br>Her heart shook her body with its beats.<br>She could not see till the moon should rise,<br>So she whispered prayers and kept her eyes<br>On the window-square<br>Till light should be there.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The faintest shadow of a branch<br>Fell on the floor. Clotilde, grown staunch<br>With solemn purpose, softly rose<br>And fluttered down between the rows<br>Of sleeping nuns.<br>She almost runs.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">She must go out through the little side door<br>Lest the nuns who were always praying before<br>The Virgin's altar should hear her pass.<br>She pushed the bolts, and over the grass<br>The red moon's brim<br>Mounted its rim.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Her shadow crept up the convent wall<br>As she swiftly left it, over all<br>The garden lay the level glow<br>Of a moon coming up, very big and slow.<br>The gravel glistened.<br>She stopped and listened.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">It was still, and the moonlight was getting clearer.<br>She laughed a little, but she felt queerer<br>Than ever before. The snowdrop bed<br>Was reached and she bent down her head.<br>On the striped ground<br>The snake was wound.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">For a moment Clotilde paused in alarm,<br>Then she rolled up her sleeve and stretched out her arm.<br>She thought she heard steps, she must be quick.<br>She darted her hand out, and seized the thick<br>Wriggling slime,<br>Only just in time.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The old gardener came muttering down the path,<br>And his shadow fell like a broad, black swath,<br>And covered Clotilde and the angry snake.<br>He bit her, but what difference did that make!<br>The Virgin should dress<br>In his loveliness.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The gardener was covering his new-set plants<br>For the night was chilly, and nothing daunts<br>Your lover of growing things. He spied<br>Something to do and turned aside,<br>And the moonlight streamed<br>On Clotilde, and gleamed.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">His business finished the gardener rose.<br>He shook and swore, for the moonlight shows<br>A girl with a fire-tongued serpent, she<br>Grasping him, laughing, while quietly<br>Her eyes are weeping.<br>Is he sleeping?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">He thinks it is some holy vision,<br>Brushes that aside and with decision<br>Jumps -- and hits the snake with his stick,<br>Crushes his spine, and then with quick,<br>Urgent command<br>Takes her hand.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The gardener sucks the poison and spits,<br>Cursing and praying as befits<br>A poor old man half out of his wits.<br>'Whatever possessed you, Sister, it's<br>Hatched of a devil<br>And very evil.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">It's one of them horrid basilisks<br>You read about. They say a man risks<br>His life to touch it, but I guess I've sucked it<br>Out by now. Lucky I chucked it<br>Away from you.<br>I guess you'll do.'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'Oh, no, Francois, this beautiful beast<br>Was sent to me, to me the least<br>Worthy in all our convent, so I<br>Could finish my picture of the Most High<br>And Holy Queen,<br>In her dress of green.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">He is dead now, but his colours won't fade<br>At once, and by noon I shall have made<br>The Virgin's robe. Oh, Francois, see<br>How kindly the moon shines down on me!<br>I can't die yet,<br>For the task was set.'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'You won't die now, for I've sucked it away,'<br>Grumbled old Francois, 'so have your play.<br>If the Virgin is set on snake's colours so strong, --'<br>'Francois, don't say things like that, it is wrong.'<br>So Clotilde vented<br>Her creed. He repented.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'He can't do no more harm, Sister,' said he.<br>'Paint as much as you like.' And gingerly<br>He picked up the snake with his stick. Clotilde<br>Thanked him, and begged that he would shield<br>Her secret, though itching<br>To talk in the kitchen.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The gardener promised, not very pleased,<br>And Clotilde, with the strain of adventure eased,<br>Walked quickly home, while the half-high moon<br>Made her beautiful snake-skin sparkle, and soon<br>In her bed she lay<br>And waited for day.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">At dawn's first saffron-spired warning<br>Clotilde was up. And all that morning,<br>Except when she went to the chapel to pray,<br>She painted, and when the April day<br>Was hot with sun,<br>Clotilde had done.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Done! She drooped, though her heart beat loud<br>At the beauty before her, and her spirit bowed<br>To the Virgin her finely-touched thought had made.<br>A lady, in excellence arrayed,<br>And wonder-souled.<br>Christ's Blessed Mould!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">From long fasting Clotilde felt weary and faint,<br>But her eyes were starred like those of a saint<br>Enmeshed in Heaven's beatitude.<br>A sudden clamour hurled its rude<br>Force to break<br>Her vision awake.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The door nearly leapt from its hinges, pushed<br>By the multitude of nuns. They hushed<br>When they saw Clotilde, in perfect quiet,<br>Smiling, a little perplexed at the riot.<br>And all the hive<br>Buzzed 'She's alive!'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Old Francois had told. He had found the strain<br>Of silence too great, and preferred the pain<br>Of a conscience outraged. The news had spread,<br>And all were convinced Clotilde must be dead.<br>For Francois, to spite them,<br>Had not seen fit to right them.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The Abbess, unwontedly trembling and mild,<br>Put her arms round Clotilde and wept, 'My child,<br>Has the Holy Mother showed you this grace,<br>To spare you while you imaged her face?<br>How could we have guessed<br>Our convent so blessed!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">A miracle! But Oh! My Lamb!<br>To have you die! And I, who am<br>A hollow, living shell, the grave<br>Is empty of me. Holy Mary, I crave<br>To be taken, Dear Mother,<br>Instead of this other.'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">She dropped on her knees and silently prayed,<br>With anguished hands and tears delayed<br>To a painful slowness. The minutes drew<br>To fractions. Then the west wind blew<br>The sound of a bell,<br>On a gusty swell.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">It came skipping over the slates of the roof,<br>And the bright bell-notes seemed a reproof<br>To grief, in the eye of so fair a day.<br>The Abbess, comforted, ceased to pray.<br>And the sun lit the flowers<br>In Clotilde's Book of Hours.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">It glistened the green of the Virgin's dress<br>And made the red spots, in a flushed excess,<br>Pulse and start; and the violet wings<br>Of the angel were colour which shines and sings.<br>The book seemed a choir<br>Of rainbow fire.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The Abbess crossed herself, and each nun<br>Did the same, then one by one,<br>They filed to the chapel, that incensed prayers<br>Might plead for the life of this sister of theirs.<br>Clotilde, the Inspired!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">She only felt tired.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">* * * * *</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The old chronicles say she did not die<br>Until heavy with years. And that is why<br>There hangs in the convent church a basket<br>Of osiered silver, a holy casket,<br>And treasured therein<br>A dried snake-skin.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Amy+Lowell">Amy Lowell</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=343759" data-title="The Book Of Hours Of Sister Clotilde de Amy Lowell" data-description="The Bell in the convent tower swung.
High overhead the great sun hung,
A navel for the curving sky.
The air was a blue clarity.
Swallows flew,
And a cock crew.

The iron clanging sank through the light air,
Rustled over with blowing branches. A fl..."></div>
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