It’s the last temptation in the convent
To hold to what has passed or will yet leave
Like shadows among the water’s descent
Or shifting clouds that tempt us to perceive.
How many set aside their beads to dote
On a secret passion, a silent will;
Forgetting those who scorned to build their boat
And drowned among a roar of foam and swill.
Foolish are wistful thoughts for ancient days
Or days whose only future is a whim;
Better to quarantine such a malaise
And devote oneself to routine and hymn
Because the heart is difficult to learn
And its yearnings too heavy to return.
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