I <br /> <br />Immense, august, like some Titanic bloom, <br /> The mighty choir unfolds its lithic core, <br />Petalled with panes of azure, gules and or, <br /> Splendidly lambent in the Gothic gloom, <br />And stamened with keen flamelets that illume <br /> The pale high-alter. On the prayer-worn floor, <br />By worshippers innumerous thronged of yore, <br /> A few brown crones, familiars of the tomb, <br />The stranded driftwood of Faith's ebbing sea-- <br /> For these alone the finials fret the skies, <br />The topmost bosses shake their blossoms free, <br /> While from the triple portals, with grave eyes, <br />Tranquil, and fixed upon eternity, <br /> The cloud of witnesses still testifies. <br /> <br />II <br /> <br />The crimson panes like blood-drops stigmatise <br /> The western floor. The aisles are mute and cold. <br />A rigid fetich in her robe of gold, <br /> The Virgin of the Pillar, with blank eyes, <br />Enthroned beneath her votive canopies, <br /> Gathers a meagre remnant to her fold. <br />The rest is solitude; the church, grown old, <br /> Stands stark and grey beneath the burning skies. <br />Well-nigh again its mighty framework grows <br /> To be a part of nature's self, withdrawn <br />From hot humanity's impatient woes; <br /> The floor is ridged like some rude mountain lawn, <br />And in the east one giant window shows <br /> The roseate coldness of an Alp at dawn.<br /><br />Edith Wharton<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/chartres/
