And it laugh’d into beauty at that bright spell.
To the earth’s wild places a guest thou art,
Flushing the waste like the rose’s heart;
And thou scornest not from thy pomp to shed
A tender smile on the ruin’s head.
Thou tak’st through the dim church-aisle thy way,
And its pillars from twilight flash forth to day,
And its high, pale tombs, with their trophies old,
Are bathed in a flood as of molten gold.
And thou turnest not from the humblest grave,