THE altar-lights burn low, the incense-fume <br />Sickens: O listen, how the priestly prayer <br />Runs as a fenland stream; a dim despair <br />Hails through their chaunt of praise, who here inhume <br />A clay-cold Faith within its carven tomb. <br />But come thou forth into the vital air <br />Keen, dark, and pure! grave Night is no betrayer, <br />And if perchance some faint cold star illume <br />Her brow of mystery, shall we walk forlorn? <br />An altar of the natural rock may rise <br />Somewhere for men who seek; there may be borne <br />On the night-wind authentic prophecies: <br />If not, let this--to breathe sane breath--suffice, <br />Till in yon East, mayhap, the dark be worn.<br /><br />Edward Dowden<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/in-the-cathedral/
