(Holy Trinity Church.) <br /> <br /> <br />THE hectic autumn's dilatory fire <br />Has turned this lime tree to a sevenfold brand, <br />Which, self consuming, lights the sunless land, <br />A death to which all poet souls aspire. <br />Above the graves, where all men's vain desire <br />Is hushed at last as by a Mother's hand, <br />And, Time confounded, Love's blank records stand, <br />The Evensong swells from the pulsing choir. <br /> <br />What incommunicable presence clings <br />To this grey church and willowy twilight stream? <br />Am I the dupe of some delusive dream? <br />Or, like faint fluid phosphorent rings <br />On refluent seas, doth Shakespeare's spirit gleam <br />Pervasive round these old familiar things?<br /><br />Mathilde Blind<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/evensong-5/
