One only still staggers and stumbles along,
The grave edges groping and feeling;
'Tis no brother ghost who has done him the wrong;
Now his scent shows the place of concealing.
The church-door he shakes, but his strength is represt;
'Tis well for the watcher the portals are blest
By crosses resplendent protected.
His shirt he must have, upon this he is bent,
No time has he now for reflection;
Each sculpture of Gothic some holding has lent,