And the sheen of the sun upon that.
Through the bloom-colored pane shines a glory
By which the vast shadows are stirred,
But I pine for the spirit and splendor
That painted the wing of that bird.
The organ rolls down its great anthem,
With the soul of a song it is blent,
But for me, I am sick for the singing
Of one little song that is spent.
The voice of the curate is gentle: