To look at you, it seems a cruel waste
That you have almost vowed to live apart
And from my pleas withdrawn a cloistered heart.
And this, not for the sake of staying chaste,
For we both know that you have never placed
Your piety in vessels quite so pure.
Instead, because, you say, love is unsure,
Unwieldy for ambition, full of haste
Impractical for one who seeks to climb
The farther summits of her own success.
How strange is this far lofty hermitage
Where contemplating mammon fills your time
And evanescent things, built to excess
Erect a convent shrine of sacrilege.
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