  Now night hath fallen on the little town, Lights glimmer from each ancient window-pane, On darkling chimney-cowl and weather-vane The buoyant moon looks equitably down; The portico’s be-shadowed columns frown At the market’s verge, and the long lights again Stream from the inn,—I to the convent lane Pass betwixt looming walls and ilex brown. The little door’s ajar, the moon in the porch Gleams on the water-stoup, “In Nomine Patris et Filii....” God’s rosy light Plays on its swinging chain, the auguster torch Of prayer hath burnt to fragrance here all day Whose ashes lie about His feet to-night. |
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