The humble house is small and low;
    Its walls are rude and bare
And yet I loiter by, for, oh,
    It seems so peaceful there

I never liked to go to school
    I always rather play;
I hated any kind of rule,
    And sometimes ran away:

But when I pass that little door,
    And breathe that holy air,
I want to be a boy once more,
    And learn my lessons there.

Oh, little nuns, with wimples white,
    And hearts of purest gold,
My soul is troubled sore to-night,
    My heart is growing cold.

Oh, little nuns of sable dress,
    And souls of drifting snow,
Teach me the way of righteousness,
    And I can learn, I know.

^__Albert Bigelow Paine.