Within her well-loved abbey's utmost corner,
Ensculptured and secluded, low she lies,
Whose head at highest bent to every mourner,
Whose eyes to all sad eyes.
This niche is lovely with the people's sorrow,
Her grave is blossoming with all loves today;
Princes and toilers were at one to borrow
Earth's flowers for earth's clay;
Also, Christ's lambs, whom she forbade not, bringing
Their cross of white, and scholars of the school,
And they that tend the sick, and they whose singing
Fills the great church heart-full.
Violets and ivy, lily and rose together,
In cross and chaplet, laid together down,
Make fair the place, and Arctic mosses feather, —
The faithful servant's crown.