Effigy of a Nun — Summary

Infinite gentleness, infinite irony Are in this face with fast-sealed eyes, And round this mouth that learned in loneliness How useless their wisdom is to the wise. In her nun’s habit carved, patiently, lovingly, By one who knew the ways of womankind, This woman’s face still keeps, in its cold wistful calm, All of the subtle pride of her mind. These long patrician hands, clasping the crucifix, Show she had weighed the world, her will was set; These pale curved lips of hers, holding their hidden smile, Once having made their choice, knew no regret. She was of those who hoard their own thoughts carefully, Feeling them far too dear to give away, Content to look at life with the high, insolent Air of an audience watching a play. If she was curious, if she was passionate She must have told herself that love was great, But that the lacking it might be as great a thing If she held fast to it, challenging fate. She who so loved herself and her own warring thoughts, Watching their humorous, tragic rebound, In her thick habit’s fold, sleeping, sleeping, Is she amused at dreams she has found? Infinite tenderness, infinite irony Are hidden forever in her closed eyes, Who must have learned too well in her long loneliness How empty wisdom is, even to the wise.