Here in the minster tower
I sit alone,
While to mind’s ear old books
Mumble and drone;
And the warm sun slants in
Over the cold stone.
Through the long afternoon
I hear the clock
Preach to the empty church:
Tick-tock. Tick-tock.
O, a rare text to expound
To a sleeping flock!
The patient organist
Who scrolled this clef;
The boy who drew him horned
On Gibbons in F;
Singers and hearers all
Are dumb and deaf--
‘Dumb and deaf, dead and dust,’
Confirms the clock.
And life seems so far off
That at the shock
I see my calm hand start,
When footsteps knock
Upon stair. Holiday-makers
Out on a trip
To whom the verger propounds
Each trusty quip,
While, mute, they fidget together
In uneasy fellowship.
And only when they are gone
Do I doff the mask
Of the scholar deep in his book:
‘Did they see me?’ I ask,
‘Or am I, too, a ghost?’ and so
Turn once more to my task.