Missing their inspiration’s human half.
Thus Ceadmon sang, and ceased. Silent awhile
The concourse stood (for all had risen), as though
Waiting from heaven its echo. Each on each
Gazed hard and caught his hands. Fiercely ere long
Their gratulating shout aloft had leaped
But Hilda laid her finger on her lip,
Or provident lest praise might stain the pure,
Or deeming song a gift too high for praise.
She spake: “Through help of God thy song is sound: