Long the archangel’s re-creating word,
Closed about with roofs and walls high-gated
Till the blast of judgment should be heard,
Naked, shamed, cast out of consecration,
Corpse and coffin, yea the very graves,
Scoffed at, scattered, shaken from their station,
Spurned and scourged of wind and sea like slaves,
Desolate beyond man’s desolation,
Shrink and sink into the waste of waves.
Tombs, with bare white piteous bones protruded,