Poems are painted window-panes:
Look from the square into the church--
Gloom and dusk are all your gains!
Sir Philistine is left in the lurch:
Outside he stands--spies nothing or use of it,
And nought is left him save the abuse of it.
But you, I pray you, just step in;
Make in the chapel your obeisance:
All at once ‘tis a radiant pleasaunce:
Device and story flash to presence;
A gracious splendour works to win.
This to God’s children is full measure:
It edifies and gives them pleasure.
_LEGEND_.