And, its touch withdrawn, the place
Was silent, empty; all that swarming tribe
Of evil ones concealed behind the veil,
And shut into their separate world, were closed
From his observance.  He arose, and paced
After the little child,—­as half in fear
That it would leave him,—­till they reached a door;
And then said he,—­but much distraught he spoke,
Laying his hand across the lock,—­“This door
Shuts in the stairs whereby men mount the tower. 
Wouldst thou go up, and so withdraw to heaven?”
It answered, “I will mount them.”  Then said he,
“And I will follow.”—­“So thou shalt do well,”
The radiant thing replied, and it went up,
And he, amazed, went after; for the stairs,
Otherwhile dark, were lightened by the rays
Shed out of raiment woven in high heaven,
And hair whereon had smiled the light of God.

With that, they, pacing on, came out at last
Into a dim, weird place,—­a chamber formed
Betwixt the roofs:  for you shall know that all
The vaulting of the nave, fretted and fine,
Was covered with the dust of ages, laid
Thick with those chips of stone which they had left
Who wrought it; but a high-pitched roof was reared
Above it, and the western gable pierced
With three long narrow lights.  Great tie-beams loomed
Across, and many daws frequented there,
The starling and the sparrow littered it
With straw, and peeped from many a shady nook;
And there was lifting up of wings, and there
Was hasty exit when the curate came. 
But sitting on a beam and moving not
For him, he saw two fair gray turtle-doves
Bowing their heads, and cooing; and the child
Put forth a hand to touch his own, but straight
He, startled, drew it back, because, forsooth,
A stirring fancy smote him, and he thought
That language trembled on their innocent tongues,
And floated forth in speech that man could hear. 
Then said the child, “Yet touch, my master dear.” 
And he let down his hand, and touched again;
And so it was.  “But if they had their way,”
One turtle cooed, “how should this world go on?”

Then he looked well upon them, as he stood
Upright before them.  They were feathered doves,
And sitting close together; and their eyes
Were rounded with the rim that marks their kind. 
Their tender crimson feet did pat the beam,—­
No phantoms they; and soon the fellow-dove
Made answer, “Nay they count themselves so wise,
There is no task they shall be set to do
But they will ask God why.  What mean they so? 
The glory is not in the task, but in
The doing it for Him.  What should he think,
Brother, this man that must, forsooth, be set
Such noble work, and suffered to behold
Its fruit, if he knew more of us and ours?”
With that the other leaned, as if attent: 
“I am not perfect, brother, in his thought.” 
The mystic bird replied.  “Brother, he saith,