Again the years went by. That sylvan lodge Had changed to convent. Beautiful it stood Not far from Isis, though on loftier ground: Sad outcasts knew it well: whate'er their need There found they solace. One day toward it moved, Dread apparition and till then unknown, Like one constrained, with self-abhorrent steps, A leper, long in forest caverns hid. Back to their cells the nuns had shrunk, o'erawed: Remained but Frideswida. Thus that wretch With scarce organic voice, and aiding sign, Wailed out the supplication of despair: 'Fly not, O saintly virgin! Yet, ah me! What help though thou remainest? Warned from heaven, I know that not thy fountain's healing wave Could heal my sorrow: not those spotless hands: Not even thy prayer. To me the one sole aid Were aid impossible--a kiss of thine.' A moment stood she: not in doubt she stood: First slowly, swiftly then to where he knelt She moved: with steadfast hand she raised that cloth Which veiled what once had been a human face: O'er it she signed in faith the cross of Christ: She wept aloud, 'My brother!' Folding then Stainless to stained, with arms about him wound, In sacred silence mouth to mouth she pressed, A long, long sister's kiss. Like infant's flesh The blighted and the blasted back returned: That leper rose restored. The legend saith That Saint Cecilia by her stood that night: 'Once more I greet thee on thy dying day.'