It is a fiend which whispereth still,
Or noon or night, or well or ill,
From the dark caverns of the past,
Through all their chambers dim and vast,
“For they who would thrive with unthrifty clod,
Who would reap where fortune’s wheel hath trod,
Are the foes of man and the cursed of God!”
The lights have vanished—and the gate
Of the abbey closed up desolate,
And all is silent as before