Poems by Isaac Rosenberg/The Nun


So thy soul's meekness shrinks,
Too loth to show her face—
Why should she shun the world?
It is a holy place.

Concealed to itself
If the flower kept its scent,
Of itself amorous,
Less rich its ornament.

Use—utmost in each kind—
Is beauty, truth in one,
While soul rays light to soul
In one God-linked sun.