  Through yonder windows stained and old, Four level rays of red and gold Strike down the twilight dim, Four lifted heads are aureoled Of the sculptured cherubim, And soft like sounds on faint winds blown Of voices dying far away, The organ’s dreamy undertone, The murmur while they pray; And I sit here alone, alone, And have no word to say; Cling closer shadows, darker yet, And heart be happy to forget. And now, the mystic silence—and they kneel, A young priest lifts a star of gold,— And then the sudden organ peal! Ave and Ave! and the music rolled Along the carven wonder of the choir, Thrilled canopy and spire, And now a boy’s flute note that rings Shrill sweet and long, Ave and Ave, louder and more loud, Rises the strain he sings, Upon the angel’s wings! Right up to God! And you that sit there in the lowliest place, With lips that hardly dare to move; You with the old sad furrowed face, Dream on your dream of love! For you, glide down the music’s swell The folding arms of peace, For me wild thoughts, I dare not tell Desires that never cease. For you the calm, the angel’s breast, Whose dim foreknowledge is at rest; For me the beat of broken wings, The old unanswered questionings. |
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