Classic Poem

THE INTERIOR

What refuge is this temple! What a boon! —
So quiet one can almost hear the tide,
Its only crypt, its foe so long defied.
In the brown shade that makes a dusk of noon,
Across the tesselated floor the shoon
Of the hushed pilgrims move with ghostly glide.
The mystery of ages seems to hide
In the dark aisles where candles gleam and swoon.

Not here by color doth the spirit rise:
No jeweled window breaks the harmonious plan,
No blazoned painting mars the gentle gold;
Yet 'tis a sermon spoken to the eyes.
Here might a pagan find the God of old
Through Art, that is the Voice Divine in Man.