Page:Underwoods, Stevenson, 1887.djvu/69

 XXIII

OUR LADY OF THE SNOWS

of the sun, out of the blast,

Out of the world, alone I passed

Across the moor and through the wood

To where the monastery stood.

There neither lute nor breathing fife,

Nor rumour of the world of life,

Nor confidences low and dear,

Shall strike the meditative ear.

Aloof, unhelpful, and unkind,

The prisoners of the iron mind,

Where nothing speaks except the hell

The unfraternal brothers dwell.