I <br />(To M.F.R.) <br />SISTER, first shake we off the dust we have <br />Upon our feet, lest it defile the stones <br />Inscriptured, covering their sacred bones <br />Who lie i' the aisles which keep the names they gave, <br />Their trust abiding round them in the grave; <br />Whom painters paint for visible orisons, <br />And to whom sculptors pray in stone and bronze; <br />Their voices echo still like a spent wave. <br />Without here, the church-bells are but a tune, <br />And on the carven church-door this hot noon <br />Lays all its heavy sunshine here without: <br />But having entered in, we shall find there <br />Silence, and sudden dimness, and deep prayer, <br />And faces of crowned angels all about. <br />II <br />(To C.G.R.) <br /> <br />SISTER, arise: We have no more to sing <br />Or say. The priest abideth as is meet <br />To minister. Rise up out of thy seat, <br />Though peradventure 'tis an irksome thing <br />To cross again the threshold of our King <br />Where His doors stand against the evil street, <br />And let each step increase upon our feet <br />The dust we shook from them at entering. <br />Must we of very sooth go home? The air, <br />Whose heat outside makes mist that can be seen, <br />Is very clear and cool where we have been. <br />The priest abideth ministering. Lo! <br />As he for service, why not we for prayer? <br />It is so bidden, sister, let us go.<br /><br />Dante Gabriel Rossetti<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-church-porches/
