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.