Here you will find the Poem A Convent Wothout God of poet Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
A prison is a convent without God. Poverty, Chastity, Obedience Its precepts are. In this austere abode None gather wealth of pleasure or of pence. Woman's light wit, the heart's concupiscence Are banished here. At the least warder's nod Thy neck shall bend in mute subservience. Nor yet for virtue--rather for the rod. Here a base turnkey novice--master is, Teaching humility. The matin bell Calls thee to toil, but little comforteth. None heed thy prayers or give the kiss of peace. Nathless, my soul, be valiant. Even in Hell Wisdom shall preach to thee of life and death.
