LXXVIII.
More hush’d, far more!—for there the wind sweeps by,
Or the woods tremble to the streams’ loud play;
Here a strange echo made my very sigh
Seem for the place too much a sound of day!
Too much my footsteps broke the moonlight, fading,
Yet arch through arch in one soft flow pervading.
And I stood still: prayer, chant had died away;
Yet past me floated a funereal breath
Of incense. I stood still—as before God and death.