Now night hath fallen on the little town,
Lights glimmer from each ancient window-pane,
On darkling chimney-cowl and weather-vane
The buoyant moon looks equitably down;
The portico’s be-shadowed columns frown
At the market’s verge, and the long lights again
Stream from the inn,—I to the convent lane
Pass betwixt looming walls and ilex brown.
The little door’s ajar, the moon in the porch
Gleams on the water-stoup, “In Nomine
Patris et Filii....” God’s rosy light
Plays on its swinging chain, the auguster torch
Of prayer hath burnt to fragrance here all day
Whose ashes lie about His feet to-night.