Her burial!—and, under the arcades,
Torch after torch into the moonlight fades,
And there is heard the music, a brief while,
Over the roofings of the imaged aisle,
From the deep organ, panting out its last,
Like the slow dying of an autumn blast.
A lonely monk is loitering within
The dusky area, at the altar seen,
Like a pale spirit, kneeling in the light
Of the cold moon, that looketh wan and white