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In The Cathedral
- THE altar-lights burn low, the incense-fume
- Sickens: O listen, how the priestly prayer
- Runs as a fenland stream; a dim despair
- Hails through their chaunt of praise, who here inhume
- A clay-cold Faith within its carven tomb.
- But come thou forth into the vital air
- Keen, dark, and pure! grave Night is no betrayer,
- And if perchance some faint cold star illume
- Her brow of mystery, shall we walk forlorn?
- An altar of the natural rock may rise
- Somewhere for men who seek; there may be borne
- On the night-wind authentic prophecies:
- If not, let this--to breathe sane breath--suffice,
- Till in yon East, mayhap, the dark be worn.
- Edward Dowden
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