Life is a series of collisions with the future; it is not the sum of what we have been, but what we yearn to be.
XII. Written at a Convent.
by William Lisle Bowles
IF chance some pensive stranger, hither led,
His bosom glowing from majestic views,
The gorgeous dome, or the proud landscape's hues,
Should ask who sleeps beneath this lowly bed --
'Tis poor Matilda! To the cloister'd scene,
A mourner, beauteous and unknown, she came,
To shed her tears unseen; and quench the flame
Of fruitless love: yet was her look serene
As the pale midnight on the moon-light isle --
Her voice was soft, which e'en a charm could lend,
Like that which spoke of a departed friend,
And a meek sadness sat upon her smile!
Now here remov'd from ev'ry human ill,
Her woes are buried, and her heart is still.