Mary Carolyn Davies

I HAVE three rings on my hand:

One is set in blue,

And one has chrysoprase,

And one I wear for you.

They are friends to me,

They keep me company

All the white night through.

And when I think of death,

And how without a breath

The house is, and the night,

My three rings clinging tight

Are warm upon my hand—

My three round rings

They are living things,

And they understand.

“Don’t be afraid,” they say, and I

Pretend I would not fear to die.

My watch beneath my pillow white

Whispers to me all the night.

My heart beats and my watch ticks,

And the fear of dying pricks

Like a pin God holds, and he

Stabs my brain with it gleefully.

My watch ticks and my heart beats,

And cool and smooth are the linen sheets;

And I am alone, and the house is still,

And there are stars past the window-sill.

III

I should like to be a nun

I think sometimes—

To fast, hear chimes,

And wear black gowns with folds; and keys;

And know the words of rosaries.

To have no long hair; and to give

Obedience while I live

To other women; and to walk

As though I were older, and to light

Candles at saints’ feet, and talk

About himself to God at night.