When the sad curate, rising from his knees,
Looked from the dead to heaven,—­as, unaware,
Men do when they would track departed life,—­He
heard the deep tone of the minster-bell
Sounding for service, and he turned away
So heavy at heart, that, when he left behind
That dismal habitation, and came out
In the clear sunshine of the minster-yard,
He never marked it.  Up the aisle he moved,
With his own gloom about him; then came forth,
And read before the folk grand words and calm,—­Words
full of hope; but into his dull heart
Hope came not.  As one talketh in a dream,
And doth not mark the sense of his own words,
He read; and, as one walketh in a dream,
He after walked toward the vestment-room,
And never marked the way he went by,—­no,
Nor the gray verger that before him stood,
The great church-keys depending from his hand,
Ready to follow him out and lock the door.

At length, aroused to present things, but not
Content to break the sequence of his thought,
Nor ready for the working day that held
Its busy course without, he said, “Good friend,
Leave me the keys:  I would remain a while.” 
And, when the verger gave, he moved with him
Toward the door distraught, then shut him out,
And locked himself within the church alone. 
The minster-church was like a great brown cave,
Fluted and fine with pillars, and all dim
With glorious gloom; but, as the curate turned,
Suddenly shone the sun,—­and roof and walls,
Also the clustering shafts from end to end,
Were thickly sown all over, as it were,
With seedling rainbows.  And it went and came
And went, that sunny beam, and drifted up
Ethereal bloom to flush the open wings
And carven cheeks of dimpled cherubim,
And dropped upon the curate as he passed,
And covered his white raiment and his hair.

Then did look down upon him from their place,
High in the upper lights, grave mitred priests,
And grand old monarchs in their flowered gowns
And capes of miniver; and therewithal
(A veiling cloud gone by) the naked sun
Smote with his burning splendor all the pile,
And in there rushed, through half-translucent panes,
A sombre glory as of rusted gold,
Deep ruby stains, and tender blue and green,
That made the floor a beauty and delight,
Strewed as with phantom blossoms, sweet enough
To have been wafted there the day they dropt
On the flower-beds in heaven. 
                                The curate passed
Adown the long south aisle, and did not think
Upon this beauty, nor that he himself—­
Excellent in the strength of youth, and fair
With all the majesty that noble work
And stainless manners give—­did add his part
To make it fairer. 
                     In among the knights
That lay with hands uplifted, by the lute
And palm of many a saint,—­’neath capitals
Whereon our fathers had been bold to carve