Best I love Sister Jerome;
Her arms are my only home,

Her strong arms and the white bed
Where they laid my weary head.

Sister Jerome—how does she know
'T is the heart that hurts one so?

Not the fever, not the wound,
But the lone heart, burned and ground.

Not the body-bruise that stings,
Just the heart's poor broken wings.

Sister Jerome—how does she know?
'T is not thus with Sister Otho.

Was her soul born, say, a flower,
Opening in her own birth-hour,

Babe and blossom at one birth?
(Thus some souls have come to earth).

Fair as ever a soul should be,
Just the hue of sympathy;

(Color of grief, color of fear,
Color of courage, too, and cheer.)

Or, long since may she have gone,
Soulless, silent, sweet and wan—

Cold as Sister Christopher—
Till great LIFE appeared to her,

Rent her still heart-heaven with woe,
That the White Dove might come through?