He was an ancient, bearded man, Within the archway seated, Who through the summer, lone and long, His Rosary repeated. He rang the bell for Matin prayers, At noontide for the reapers, And, when the evening shadows fell, He rang it for the keepers; And, sometimes, too, he tolled a knell For everlasting sleepers. From day to day he said his beads, Within the archway staying; The sun arising found him there, And, setting, left him praying. On him would little hands attend, And little footfalls pattered Around him; where the fig trees bend, Where purple treasures scattered; The whisp'ring cypress was his friend, For him the ivy chattered. But seldom at that Convent gate A traveller dismounted; The outer world of love and hate Passed by it unaccounted, Monotonous, and quaint, and calm, The prayerful seasons glided, The vesper hymn and morning psalm The days alone divided, That by the dial, near the palm, Were left but undecided. So years went by, until one day The night cloud, westward rolling, Came round the Friar's dim retreat, Without the Vesper tolling. The birds still sang on ivy sprays, The children still were playing, The Porter, as in former days, Seemed Rosaries still saying; But Death had found his quiet ways, And took the old man praying. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THEY HAVEN'T HEARD THE WEST IS OVER by JAMES GALVIN IN THE GARDEN AT THE DAWN HOUR by EDGAR LEE MASTERS NORTH WIND TO DUTIFUL BEAST MIDWAY BETWEEN DIAL & FOOT OF GARDEN CLOCK by MARIANNE MOORE THE PICTURE (VENUS RECLINING) by EZRA POUND |