His body was green with a metal brightness Like an emerald set in a kind of whiteness, And all down his curling length were disks, Evil vermilion asterisks, They paled and flooded As wounds fresh-blooded. His crest was amber glittered with blue, And opaque so the sun came shining through. It seemed a crown with fiery points. When he quivered all down his scaly joints, From every slot The sparkles shot. The nuns huddled tightly together, fear Catching their senses. But Clotilde must peer More closely at the beautiful snake, She seemed entranced and eased. Could she make Colours so rare, The dress were there. The Abbess shook off her lethargy. "Sisters, we will walk on," said she. Sidling away from the snowdrop bed, The line curved forwards, the Abbess ahead. Only Clotilde Was the last to yield. When the recreation hour was done Each went in to her task. Alone In the library, with its great north light, Clotilde wrought at an exquisite Wreath of flowers For her Book of Hours. She twined the little crocus blooms With snowdrops and daffodils, the glooms Of laurel leaves were interwoven With Stars-of-Bethlehem, and cloven Fritillaries, Whose colour varies. They framed the picture she had made, Half-delighted and half-afraid. In a courtyard with a lozenged floor The Virgin watched, and through the arched door The angel came Like a springing flame. His wings were dipped in violet fire, His limbs were strung to holy desire. He lowered his head and passed under the arch, And the air seemed beating a solemn march. The Virgin waited With eyes dilated. Her face was quiet and innocent, And beautiful with her strange assent. A silver thread about her head Her halo was poised. But in the stead Of her gown, there remained The vellum, unstained. Clotilde painted the flowers patiently, Lingering over each tint and dye. She could spend great pains, now she had seen That curious, unimagined green. A colour so strange It had seemed to change. She thought it had altered while she gazed. At first it had been simple green; then glazed All over with twisting flames, each spot A molten colour, trembling and hot, And every eye Seemed to liquefy. She had made a plan, and her spirits danced. After all, she had only glanced At that wonderful snake, and she must know Just what hues made the creature throw Those splashes and sprays Of prismed rays. When evening prayers were sung and said, The nuns lit their tapers and went to bed. And soon in the convent there was no light, For the moon did not rise until late that night, Only the shine Of the lamp at the shrine.