Pax Vobis
'Tis of the Father Hilary. He strove, but could not pray: so took The darkened stair, where his feet shook A sad blind echo. He kept up Slowly. 'Twas a chill sway of air That autumn noon within the stair, Sick, dizzy, like a turning cup. His brain perplexed him, void and thin: He shut his eyes and felt it spin; The obscure deafness hemmed him in. He said: “the air is calm outside.”
He leaned unto the gallery Where the chime keeps the night and day: It hurt his brain,—he could not pray. He had his face upon the stone: Deep 'twixt the narrow shafts, his eye Passed all the roofs unto the sky Whose greyness the wind swept alone. Close by his feet he saw it shake With wind in pools that the rains make: The ripple set his eyes to ache. He said, “Calm hath its peace outside.”
He stood within the mystery Girding God's blessed Eucharist: The organ and the chaunt had ceased: A few words paused against his ear, Said from the altar: drawn round him, The silence was at rest and dim. He could not pray. The bell shook clear And ceased. All was great awe,—the breath Of God in man, that warranteth Wholly the inner things of Faith. He said: “There is the world outside.”
Ghent: Church of St. Bavon.