HIGH in the organ-loft, with lilied hair, <br />Love plied the pedals with his snowy foot, <br />Pouring forth music like the scent of fruit, <br />And stirring all the incense-laden air; <br />We knelt before the altar's gold rail where <br />The priest stood robed, with chalice and palm-shoot, <br />With music-men, who bore citole and lute, <br />Behind us, and the attendant virgins fair; <br />And so our red aurora flashed to gold, <br />Our dawn to sudden sun, and all the while <br />The high-voiced children trebled clear and cold, <br />The censer-boys went swinging down the aisle, <br />And far above, with fingers strong and sure, <br />Love closed our lives' triumphant overture.<br /><br />Edmund William Gosse<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/epithalamium-12/
