With thunderous music, to stir the soul,
While spirits soar, as on wings of fire,
'Mid the holy chants of the surpliced choir.
But when the crowd has passed away,
And the lights burn low and the church is gray,
And in their solitude aisle and nave
Are still and stern as a martyr's grave,
All is not over of praise and prayer:
The mourner, shrinking from crowd and glare,
May kneel in the shadow, and veil her eyes