BRONZE bells and incense burners, and a flight <br />Of birds born out of iron, and fine as spray; <br />A dial that told the longest summer day <br />How sure, how swift the night: <br />And o'er the silent treasury, so high <br />No lips may kiss, no grieving hands have clung, <br />Numbered and ticketed, the Christ is hung. <br />The many pass Him by, <br />None pause. Here come no agonies, no dreams. <br />Nothing is here to hurt Him, nor to wake. <br />Year after year the golden iris gleams <br />A little paler by her lacquered lake, <br />And the dust gathers on the hands, the side, <br />The lonely head of Love the crucified.<br /><br />Marjorie Lowry Christie Pickthall<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/christ-in-the-museum/
