Classic Poem

From his high arch, nestled in stony nook,
He used to leer across the twilight space
Of the great aisle—the goblin with the book,
Bent in huge hands. Half lost in ivoried lace
Of shadow carving, scrolls and thick-twined gorse,
His savage face was sly with some dark jest;
I thought it strange he lived so cruel, coarse,
Above five centuries' drifted prayer and rest.
To-day I knew him by his evil sneer,
In shattered rose-glass, fretwork, fallen towers;
And wondered if he told his maker's fear
Of this far shame. But no—who dreamed these flowers,
Modeled of light, this laughing cherub's wing,
How should he think men's hands might do this thing?