At length, aroused to present things, but not Content to break the sequence of his thought, Nor ready for the working day that held Its busy course without, he said, "Good friend, Leave me the keys: I would remain a while." And, when the verger gave, he moved with him Toward the door distraught, then shut him out, And locked himself within the church alone. The minster-church was like a great brown cave, Fluted and fine with pillars, and all dim With glorious gloom; but, as the curate turned, Suddenly shone the sun,--and roof and walls, Also the clustering shafts from end to end, Were thickly sown all over, as it were, With seedling rainbows. And it went and came And went, that sunny beam, and drifted up Ethereal bloom to flush the open wings And carven cheeks of dimpled cherubim, And dropped upon the curate as he passed, And covered his white raiment and his hair. Then did look down upon him from their place, High in the upper lights, grave mitred priests, And grand old monarchs in their flowered gowns And capes of miniver; and therewithal (A veiling cloud gone by) the naked sun Smote with his burning splendor all the pile, And in there rushed, through half-translucent panes, A sombre glory as of rusted gold, Deep ruby stains, and tender blue and green, That made the floor a beauty and delight, Strewed as with phantom blossoms, sweet enough To have been wafted there the day they dropt On the flower-beds in heaven. The curate passed Adown the long south aisle, and did not think Upon this beauty, nor that he himself-- Excellent in the strength of youth, and fair With all the majesty that noble work And stainless manners give--did add his part To make it fairer. In among the knights That lay with hands uplifted, by the lute And palm of many a saint,--'neath capitals Whereon our fathers had been bold to carve With earthly tools their ancient childlike dream Concerning heavenly fruit and living bowers, And glad full-throated birds that sing up there Among the branches of the tree of life-- Through all the ordered forest of the shafts, Shooting on high to enter into light, That swam aloft,--he took his silent way, And in the southern transept sat him down, Covered his face, and thought. He said, "No pain, No passion, and no aching, heart o' mine, Doth stir within thee. Oh! I would there did: Thou art so dull, so tired. I have lost I know not what. I see the heavens as lead: They tend no whither. Ah! the world is bared Of her enchantment now: she is but earth And water. And, though much hath passed away, There may be more to go. I may forget The joy and fear that have been: there may live No more for me the fervency of hope Nor the arrest of wonder.