Classic Poem

It is a memory now—that vesper hour
Among the singers in the organ-loft—
The tinted twilight, the perfume, the soft
Blue cloud of incense, the rich volute flower
Of massive capitals, and the music shower
That fell from orient pipes in luminous rain
Upon our spirits; and there was one strain
That seemed to touch her as with heavenly power—
One chord antiphonal that died away
To purest silence, while her lashes met
And parted like the wings of butterflies
On evening flowers; so gentle was the sway
Of chastened fancy. There is with me yet
The dreadful influence of those charmed eyes.