Sister Charity

by Columbine

Packed off to St. Agnes' at fourteen
Barren and unmarriageable
(her father was told this by the Virgin Mary in a dream)
Now choirmistress Sister Charity murmurs to her hawk
Not Alleluia, who is young and still in training
But Revelations, who brought two fine hares to the convent's table
And who streaks like an arrow to her whistle:
Praise Jesus, but the wealthy are presumptuous!
I must pray for Lord Whidden's misguided son -
Is that a mite, lovely bird? I shall crush it
And dust you again -
I am grateful daily that the Lord has seen fit to deliver me
From the arrogance of nobility!
Poor young Walter will be in my prayers
That Jesus may disabuse him of his folly
Marry me! A nun! And two years his senior
What can he be thinking, I wonder?
Perhaps he has eaten apple blossoms
Not good wholesome hare, do you think, Revelations?
There's my prize, my little messenger angel
You'd think he envied the carter's boy our dalliances
Or perhaps he is pleased by my form
Four months from childbirth, and barely able to ride
These nobles' sons are all romantics
Surely he dreams of cradling a babe
Of being a family man at last
But this gift of the good Lord is not food for politics
No he's not, is he, Revelations?
I am certain he will be a bishop
Or, if a girl, a joyous chorister
To sing the Lord's praises all day long
To you and your cousins of the sky, yes, lovely bird
Bright-winged notes of gratitude to merciful Jesus
And to His wise mother, who called me to serve Him
When I was but a child.

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