Gaunt arches push up their whited cones,
And cover the sparse worshipers with dead men’s stones.
Behind his shambling choristers, with flattened feet
And red-flapped hood, the Bishop walks, complete
In old, frayed ceremonial. The organ wheezes
A moldy psalm-tune, and a verger sneezes.
But the great Cathedral spears into the sky
Shouting for joy.
What is the red-flapped Bishop praying for, by the bye?