Old Sister Mary Martha walks
Behind the convent gate,
A-down the only path she knows.
Past blossoming tree and budding rose,
Counting her trembling steps, she goes,
And makes the turn at eight.
Frail as a Winter bloom is she,
And old, so very old.
Her eyes are like pale, frosted glass,
Her rusty skirts above the grass
Make scarce a whisper as they pass,
Scarce stir the leafy mould.
Old Sister Mary Martha halts
Beside the plum's white lace,
And for one moment fragrant things
From sweet, remembered, far-off Springs
Merge with the rush of angels' wings
And lie along her face!
First published in The Australian Woman's Mirror, 29 October 1929
