The West builds high a sepulchre
Of cloudy granite and of gold.
Where twilight's priestly hours inter
The day like some great king of old,
A censer, rimmed with silver fire,
The new moon swings above his tomb;
While, organ-stops of God's own choir,
Star after star throbs in the gloom.
And night draws near, the sadly sweet--
A nun whose face is calm and fair--
And kneeling at the dead day's feet
Her soul goes up in silent prayer.
In prayer, we feel through dewy gleam
And flowery fragrance, and--above
All Earth--the ecstasy and dream
That haunt the mystic heart of love.