Since, in the ashen nunnery of your heart,
You shun the love your glories must excite,
Then choose some white-walled convent's better part,
And shine, the moon of its unthankful night.
There, in your cold entrancing holiness,
I'll love you still, all signt of you denied;
There, for my sake, harsh macerations press
Close to the bone, and die beatified—
For then those sweets that bind me to the earth
Shall charm my thoughts to heavenly excellence:
To reach the measure of your high-purposed worth
And know your bosom's paradisal sense,
I'll kiss your image, with exaltation faint,
And kneel before you for my patron saint.