Explore "The Dead Day" by Madison Cawein on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
The West builds high a sepulchre / Of cloudy granite and of gold.
Where twilight's priestly hours inter / The day like some great king of old,
A censer, rimmed with silver fire, / The new moon swings above his tomb; / While, organ-stops of God's own choir, / Star after star throbs in the gloom.
And night draws near, the sadly sweet -- / A nun whose face is calm and fair -- / And kneeling at the dead day's feet / Her soul goes up in silent prayer.
In prayer, we feel through dewy gleam / And flowery fragrance, and -- above / All Earth -- the ecstasy and dream / That haunt the mystic heart of love.