Dim with dark shadows of the ages past, St. Bavon stands, solemn and rich and vast; The slender pillars, in long vistas spread, Like forest arches meet and close o'erhead; So high that, like a weak and doubting prayer, Ere it can float to the carved angels there, The silver clouded incense faints in air: Only the organ's voice, with peal on peal, Can mount to where those far-off angels kneel. Here the pale boy, beneath a low side-arch, Would listen to its solemn chant or march; Folding his little hands, his simple prayer Melted in childish dreams, and both in air: While the great organ over all would roll, Speaking strange secrets to his innocent soul, Bearing on eagle-wings the great desire Of all the kneeling throng, and piercing higher Than aught but love and prayer can reach, until Only the silence seemed to listen still; Or gathering like a sea still more and more, Break in melodious waves at heaven's door, And then fall, slow and soft, in tender rain, Upon the pleading longing hearts again. Then he would watch the rosy sunlight glow, That crept along the marble floor below, Passing, as life does, with the passing hours, Now by a shrine all rich with gems and flowers, Now on the brazen letters of a tomb, Then, leaving it again to shade and gloom, And creeping on, to show, distinct and quaint, The kneeling figure of some marble saint: Or lighting up the carvings strange and rare, That told of patient toil, and reverent care; Ivy that trembled on the spray, and ears, Of heavy corn, and slender bulrush spears, And all the thousand tangled weeds that grow In summer, where the silver rivers flow; And demon-heads grotesque, that seemed to glare In impotent wrath on all the beauty there: Then the gold rays up pillared shaft would climb, And so be drawn to heaven, at evening time. And deeper silence, darker shadows flowed On all around, only the windows glowed With blazoned glory, like the shields of light Archangels bear, who, armed with love and might, Watch upon heaven's battlements at night. Then all was shade; the silver lamps that gleamed, Lost in the daylight, in the darkness seemed Like sparks of fire in the dim aisles to shine, Or trembling stars before each separate shrine. Grown half afraid, the child would leave them there, And come out, blinded by the noisy glare That burst upon him from the busy square.