The west builds high a sepulcher
Of cloudy granite and of gold,
Where twilight's priestly hours inter
The Day like some great king of old.
A censer, rimmed with silver fire,
The new moon swings above his tomb;
While, organ-stops of God's own choir,
Star after star throbs in the gloom.
And Night draws near, the sadly sweet—
A nun whose face is calm and fair—
And kneeling at the dead Day's feet
Her soul goes up in mists like prayer.
In prayer, we feel through dewy gleam
And flowery fragrance, and—above
All earth—the ecstasy and dream
That haunt the mystic heart of love.