Twilight descended, and the air Was gray, and like a sense of dread, Night on the virgin breast of earth Her sable shadows spread. Slowly, with wavering steps a man Moved on a solitary moor, With staff, and shell, and sandaled shoon, A pilgrim pale and poor. Slowly, with trembling steps he moved, Pausing, as if uncertain where To take his way, when, faint and far, A bell disturbed the air. And as with concentrated strength He sought the sound, a little light Shone flickeringly and glow-worm like Through the ravine of night. A little light that with each step Became distinct, until his eyes Beheld a convent’s welcome walls Between him and the skies. He reached the portal—rang the bell, And as above him rose the moon, Sank, like the storm: the portress found The pilgrim in a swoon. They bore the wasted wanderer in: Pallid but beautiful he lay, A dream which seemed to come from heaven Though clad in suffering clay. And when, long hours of anguish gone, His eyes once more shone calmly blue, Looks that seemed grievous memories Dimmed their ethereal hue. His soul, which many days had walked The ploughshares of consuming love. Wrung by the ordeal, raised its eyes Toward Him Who reigned above. He sought the chapel; at the shrine Knelt, while his eyes were wet with tears— God’s love in holy harmonies Filling his penitent ears. Even as he knelt the solemn mass, “ORA PRO NOBIS, DOMINE,” Rose, like a dove on sun-lit wings, Seeking the heavenly way. Concordant voices sweet and clear Rang through the consecrated nave, Discoursing melodies which rolled And broke, wave over wave. As in an ecstasy he knelt, Cheeks, lips and eyes alive with light, Radiant, as if a saint, or Christ Himself had blessed his sight. For in the voices one sweet voice Swam, like a spirit’s, in his ears: He could not speak, or move, or breathe; While slowly trickling tears Ran down his cheeks, as, louder still, The swan-voiced organ breathed its knell, And on its cloudy height of song Paused, trembled, moaned and fell.