The tiniest wren that built her nest
In Christ's own halo, on Mary's breast,
Was scared away like a demon guest.
Once, twice, thrice, the glistening spire
That soared from the central tower, higher
Than all its clustered pinnacles, fell,
And not one of the carven saints could tell
The cause, though the emperor quizzed them well.
Down in the cloister all strewn with chips
Of alabaster and ivory tips