In A Gothic Church

They rise aloft, marching in awful file, The polished shafts immense of marble grey, And in the sacred darkness seem to be An army of giants

Who wage a war with the invisible; The silent arches soar and spring apart In distant flight, then re-embrace again And droop on high.

So in the discord of unhappy men, From out their barbarous tumult there go up To God the sighs of solitary souls In Him united.

Of you I ask no God, ye marble shafts, Ye airy vaults! I tremble—but I watch To hear a dainty well-known footstep waken The solemn echoes.

'Tis Lidia, and she turns, and, slowly turning, Her tresses full of light reveal themselves, And love is shining from a pale shy face Behind the veil.