. Tax not the royal Saint with vain expense, <br /> With ill-matched aims the Architect who planned-- <br /> Albeit labouring for a scanty band <br /> Of white-robed Scholars only--this immense <br /> And glorious Work of fine intelligence! <br /> Give all thou canst; high Heaven rejects the lore <br /> Of nicely-calculated less or more; <br /> So deemed the man who fashioned for the sense <br /> These lofty pillars, spread that branching roof <br /> Self-poised, and scooped into ten thousand cells, <br /> Where light and shade repose, where music dwells <br /> Lingering--and wandering on as loth to die; <br /> Like thoughts whose very sweetness yieldeth proof <br /> That they were born for immortality.<br /><br />William Wordsworth<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/inside-of-king-s-college-chapel-cambridge/
