The cardinals' hats dangle and turn <br />In the vaulted air, <br />Each one above a tomb. <br />And we must read the floor <br />To tell the name of whom <br />It served as a shade, <br />Whether to hide the jowls <br />Of sin and age <br />Or cheeks pinched <br />With the pain <br />Of steady abnegation. <br />And, shooting past <br />Every scarlet-tassled hat, <br />Slanting columns of light <br />Show up flecks of dust <br />That seem golden angels <br />Who have leapt <br />From their proverbial pins <br />To climb the covered sky, <br />Then drift down again, <br />Uncertain of where they go, <br />Confused, as they fly, <br />Clutching red-robed souls.<br /><br />Daniel James Webster<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/at-notre-dame/
