Classic Poem

The triple spire springs heavenward as of old;
The bordering limes stand touched by no decay
Save Autumn's; still the gathered people pray;
And ancient chants through ancient aisles are rolled. —
Yet hath not Time even here, his wings to fold,
Paused; the hoar fane is full of yesterday;
New blazonries dye sunlight; new array
Of kings and saints the storied niches hold.
Bilgrim, that hither stealest to behold
The spot of thy departure on Life's way,
Clings a like garland to thy temples grey?
Is a like record of thy travel told?
Rich in the new, nor rifled of the old,
Seek'st thou these precincts fortunate as they?