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I
IMMENSE, august, like some Titanic bloom, / The mighty choir unfolds its lithic core, / Petalled with panes of azure, gules and or, / Splendidly lambent in the Gothic gloom, / And stamened with keen flamelets that illume / The pale high-altar. On the prayer-worn floor, / By worshippers innumerous thronged of yore, / A few brown crones, familiars of the tomb, / The stranded driftwood of Faith's ebbing sea -- / For these alone the finials fret the skies, / The topmost bosses shake their blossoms free, / While from the triple portals, with grave eyes, / Tranquil, and fixed upon eternity, / The cloud of witnesses still testifies.