The she-oak tree outside my door,
Is like some sombre Nun who stands,
Upon a cold mosaic floor,
Chanting her prayers in sanctity.
I hear the beads slip through her hands,
The while she drones her Rosary.
Her rusty-black, wind-lifted veil
Conceals the contour of her form;
I see her face, austere and pale.
And when the night is full of moan
I hear her voice blown through the storm,
Praying for them who walk alone.
And then I think she prays for me,
Counting each Holy Mystery.
I hear the beads slip through her hands,
The while she chants her Rosary.
First published in The Australasian, 12 October 1918
