Broken In Fortune, But In Mind Entire And Sound In Principle, I Seek Repose Where Ancient Trees This Convent-Pile Enclose, In Ruin Beautiful. When Vain Desire Intrudes On Peace, I Pray The Eternal Sire To Cast A Soul-Subduing Shade On Me, A Grey-Haired, Pensive, Thankful Refugee; A Shade, But With Some Sparks Of Heavenly Fire Once To These Cells Vouchsafed. And When I Note The Old Tower'S Brow Yellowed As With The Beams Of Sunset Ever There, Albeit Streams Of Stormy Weather-Stains That Semblance Wrought, I Thank The Silent Monitor, And Say "Shine So, My Aged Brow, At All Hours Of The Day!"