William Wordsworth

Inside of King’s College Chapel, Cambridge: The Same

WHAT awful pérspective! while from our sight
With gradual stealth the lateral windows hide
Their portraitures, their stone-work glimmers, dyed
In the soft checkerings of a sleepy light.
Martyr, or king, or sainted Eremite,
Whoe’er ye be, that thus, yourselves unseen,
Imbue your prison-bars with solemn sheen,
Shine on, until ye fade with coining night!—
But, from the arms of silence,—list! O, list!—
The music bursteth into second life;
The notes luxuriate, every stone is kissed
By sound, or ghost of sound, in mazy strife;
Heart-thrilling strains, that cast, before the eye
Of the devout, a veil of ecstasy!