High heaven, our low earth's brick-and-mortar work?

III

It was the Chapel. That a star, from murk

Which hid, should flashingly emerge at last,

Were small surprise: but from broad day I passed

Into a presence that turned shine to shade.

There fronted me the Rafael Mother-Maid,

Never to whom knelt votarist in shrine

By Nature's bounty helped, by Art's divine

More varied—beauty with magnificence—