Come, pensive nun, devout and pure, sober steadfast, and demure, all in a robe of darkest grain, flowing with majestic train.
What better can we do than prostrate fall before Him reverent, and there confess humbly our faults, and pardon beg with tears watering the ground?
That power Which erring men call Chance.
Evil on itself shall back recoil.
Hail, wedded love, mysterious law; true source of human happiness.
Thy liquid notes that close the eye of day.