Classic Poem

We read of high-born dames, sick of life's glare,
Who in dim cloisters fain would end their days,
Exchanging pomp for pious prayer and praise:
Summer, is such thy role , that thou dost wear
This nun-like torpor in thine altered air?
We miss the sweet June freshness, and the ways
Of happy, hot July: this August haze
Is like a veil shrouding thy features fair;
This drowsy stillness is a convent-calm,
Oppressing us like sadness. Oh, sweet nun,
Is it for penance? What deed hast thou done,
That happy mirth should change to sob and psalm,
And telling of thy beads against the pane
In the low patter of this August rain?