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She could not see till the moon should rise；
So she whispered prayers and kept her eyes
On the window…square
Till light should be there。
The faintest shadow of a branch
Fell on the floor。 Clotilde； grown staunch
With solemn purpose； softly rose
And fluttered down between the rows
Of sleeping nuns。
She almost runs。
She must go out through the little side door
Lest the nuns who were always praying before
The Virgin's altar should hear her pass。
She pushed the bolts； and over the grass
The red moon's brim
Mounted its rim。
Her shadow crept up the convent wall
As she swiftly left it； over all
The garden lay the level glow
Of a moon coming up； very big and slow。
The gravel glistened。
She stopped and listened。
It was still； and the moonlight was getting clearer。
She laughed a little； but she felt queerer
Than ever before。 The snowdrop bed
Was reached and she bent down her head。
On the striped ground
The snake was wound。
For a moment Clotilde paused in alarm；
Then she rolled up her sleeve and stretched out her arm。
She thought she heard steps； she must be quick。
She darted her hand out； and seized the thick
Wriggling slime；
Only just in time。
The old gardener came muttering down the path；
And his shadow fell like a broad； black swath；
And covered Clotilde and the angry snake。
He bit her； but what difference did that make！
The Virgin should dress
In his loveliness。
The gardener was covering his new…set plants
For the night was chilly； and nothing daunts
Your lover of growing things。 He spied
Something to do and turned aside；
And the moonlight streamed
On Clotilde； and gleamed。
His business finished the gardener rose。
He shook and swore； for the moonlight shows
A girl with a fire…tongued serpent； she
Grasping him； laughing； while quietly
Her eyes are weeping。
Is he sleeping？
He thinks it is some holy vision；
Brushes that aside and with decision
Jumps and hits the snake with his stick；
Crushes his spine； and then with quick；
Urgent command
Takes her hand。
The gardener sucks the poison and spits；
Cursing and praying as befits
A poor old man half out of his wits。
〃Whatever possessed you； Sister； it's
Hatched of a devil
And very evil。
It's one of them horrid basilisks
You read about。 They say a man risks
His life to touch it； but I guess I've sucked it
Out by now。 Lucky I chucked it
Away from you。
I guess you'll do。〃
〃Oh； no； Francois； this beautiful beast
Was sent to me； to me the least
Worthy in all our convent； so I
Could finish my picture of the Most High
And Holy Queen；
In her dress of green。
He is dead now； but his colours won't fade
At once； and by noon I shall have made
The Virgin's robe。 Oh； Francois； see
How kindly the moon shines down on me！
I can't die yet；
For the task was set。〃
〃You won't die now； for I've sucked it away；〃
Grumbled old Francois； 〃so have your play。
If the Virgin is set on snake's colours so strong； 〃
〃Francois； don't say things like that； it is wrong。〃
So Clotilde vented
Her creed。 He repented。
〃He can't do no more harm； Sister；〃 said he。
〃Paint as much as you like。〃 And gingerly
He picked up the snake with his stick。 Clotilde
Thanked him； and begged that he would shield
Her secret； though itching
To talk in the kitchen。
The gardener promised； not very pleased；
And Clotilde； with the strain of adventure eased；
Walked quickly home； while the half…high moon
Made her beautiful snake…skin sparkle； and soon
In her bed she lay
And waited for day。
At dawn's first saffron…spired warning
Clotilde was up。 And all that morning；
Except when she went to the chapel to pray；
She painted； and when the April day
Was hot with sun；
Clotilde had done。
Done！ She drooped； though her heart beat loud
At the beauty before her； and her spirit bowed
To the Virgin her finely…touched thought had made。
A lady； in excellence arrayed；
And wonder…souled。
Christ's Blessed Mould！
From long fasting Clotilde felt weary and faint；
But her eyes were starred like those of a saint
Enmeshed in Heaven's beatitude。
A sudden clamour hurled its rude
Force to break
Her vision awake。
The door nearly leapt from its hinges； pushed
By the multitude of nuns。 They hushed
When they saw Clotilde； in perfect quiet；
Smiling； a little perplexed at the riot。
And all the hive
Buzzed 〃She's alive！〃
Old Francois had told。 He had found the strain
Of silence too great； and preferred the pain
Of a conscience outraged。 The news had spread；
And all were convinced Clotilde must be dead。
For Francois； to spite them；
Had not seen fit to right them。
The Abbess； unwontedly trembling and mild；
Put her arms round Clotilde and wept； 〃My child；
Has the Holy Mother showed you this grace；
To spare you while you imaged her face？
How could we have guessed
Our convent so blessed！
A miracle！ But Oh！ My Lamb！
To have you die！ And I； who am
A hollow； living shell； the grave
Is empty of me。 Holy Mary； I crave
To be taken； Dear Mother；
Instead of this other。〃
She dropped on her knees and silently prayed；
With anguished hands and tears delayed
To a painful slowness。 The minutes drew
To fractions。 Then the west wind blew
The sound of a bell；
On a gusty swell。
It came skipping over the slates of the roof；
And the bright bell…notes seemed a reproof
To grief； in the eye of so fair a day。
The Abbess； comforted； ceased to pray。
And the sun lit the flowers
In Clotilde's Book of Hours。
It glistened the green of the Virgin's dress
And made the red spots； in a flushed excess；
Pulse and start； and the violet wings
Of the angel were colour which shines and sings。
The book seemed a choir
Of rainbow fire。
The Abbess crossed herself； and each nun
Did the same； then one by one；
They filed to the chapel； that incensed prayers
Might plead for the life of this sister of theirs。
Clotilde； the Inspired！
She only felt tired。
* * * * *
The old chronicles say she did not die
Until heavy with years。 And that is why
There hangs in the convent church a basket
Of osiered silver； a holy casket；
And treasured therein
A dried snake…skin。
The Exeter Road
Panels of claret and blue which shine
Under the moon like lees of wine。
A coronet done in a golden scroll；
And wheels which blunder and creak as they roll
Through the muddy ruts of a moorland track。
They daren't look back！
They are whipping and cursing the horses。 Lord！
What brutes men are when they think they're scored。
Be