My own, my sweet,
Thine own true lover follow;
Fear not the veil,
The cloister's pall
Keeps far Earth's spectres hollow.
Sinks the fire with fitful flashes,
Soars the Phoenix from his ashes,
Love yields Life for evermore.
What word shall be, &c.

Love, that no power
Of dreariest hour,
Could change, no scorn, no rage,
Now heavenly free
From Earth shall be,
In this, our hermitage.
Winged of love that upward, onward,
Ageless, boundless, bears us sunward,
To the heavens our souls shall soar.
What word shall be, &c.


On reading these verses through in a chapel where she was alone, Pauline
began to weep so bitterly that all the paper was wetted with her tears.
Had it not been for her fear of showing a deeper affection than was
seemly, she would certainly have withdrawn forthwith to some hermitage,
and never have looked upon a living being again; but her native
discretion moved her to dissemble for a little while longer. And
although she was now resolved to leave the world entirely, she feigned
the very opposite, and so altered her countenance, that in company she