The hand of her—as pure as any snow,
And sweet as any rose.
II.
WORSHIP.
I passed beneath the stately Norman portal,
I trod the stones that pilgrim feet have trod,
I passed between the pillars tall and slender,
That yearn to heaven as man's soul yearns to God.
The coloured glory of the pictured windows
Fell on me as I kneeled before the shrine