On all the church. And I wot well
There are such silences in hell.
Taper and torch died down—went out—
And all our church grew dark and cold,
And deathly odours crept about,
And chill, as of the churchyard mould;
And every flower drooped its head,
And all the rose's leaves were shed,
And all the lilies dropped down dead.
There, in the bishop's chair, we saw—