Henry Theodore Tuckerman (1813–1871)

THINK ye the desolate must live apart,

By solemn vows to convent-walls confined?

Ah! no; with men may dwell the cloistered heart,

And in a crowd the isolated mind:

Tearless behind the prison-bars of fate,

The world sees not how desolate they stand,

Gazing so fondly through the iron grate

Upon the promised yet forbidden land;

Patience, the shrine to which their bleeding feet

Day after day in voiceless penance turn;

Silence, the holy cell and calm retreat,

In which unseen their meek devotions burn:

Life is to them a vigil, which none share,

Their hopes a sacrifice, their love a prayer.