He stood in living sanctity, a pure
And heavenly-minded man—even where they stood
To gaze upon his dust—and all around
He scattered bright and hallowed images
Of perfect beauty—in their brightness there
Still lying as he left them. Shadows fair
Of angel form and feature—ye who gaze
In clouded splendour through those cloisters old,
Looking as things of life—could ye behold
Those slender bones, they were the living hand