And convent fathers, and a choristry
Of sisters, saying, ‘Hush!’—But I will sing
Rare songs to thy pure spirit, wandering
Down on the dews to heaven: I will tune
The instrument of the ethereal noon,
And all the choir of stars, to rise and fall
In harmony and beauty musical.”
He is away—and still the sickly lamp
Is burning next the altar; there’s a damp,
Thin mould upon the pavement, and, at morn,