This may be superstition, weak or wild;
But even the faintest relics of a shrine
Of any worship wake some thoughts divine.
LXII.
A mighty window, hollow in the centre,
Shorn of its glass of thousand colourings,
Through which the deepened glories once could enter,
Streaming from off the Sun like Seraph's wings,
Now yawns all desolate: now loud, now fainter,
The gale sweeps through its fretwork, and oft sings