Poems (Sill)/Morning
For works with similar titles, see Morning.
ENTERED once, at break of day,A chapel, lichen-stained and gray,Where a congregation dozed and heardAn old monk read from a written Word.No light through the window-panes could pass,For shutters were closed on the rich stained-glass;And in a gloom like the nether nightThe monk read on by a taper's light.Ghostly with shadows, that shrank and grewAs the dim light flared, were aisle and pew;And the congregation that dozed around,Listened without a stir or sound— Save one, who rose with wistful face,And shifted a shutter from its place.Then light flashed in like a flashing gem—For dawn had come unknown to them—And a slender beam, like a lance of gold,Shot to the crimson curtain-fold,Over the bended head of himWho pored and pored by the taper dim;And it kindled over his wrinkled browSuch words—"The law which was till now;"And I wondered that, under that morning ray,When night and shadow were scattered away,The monk should bow his locks of whiteBy a taper's feebly flickering light—Should pore, and pore, and never seemTo notice the golden morning-beam.
MORNING.
ENTERED once, at break of day,A chapel, lichen-stained and gray,Where a congregation dozed and heardAn old monk read from a written Word.No light through the window-panes could pass,For shutters were closed on the rich stained-glass;And in a gloom like the nether nightThe monk read on by a taper's light.Ghostly with shadows, that shrank and grewAs the dim light flared, were aisle and pew;And the congregation that dozed around,Listened without a stir or sound— Save one, who rose with wistful face,And shifted a shutter from its place.Then light flashed in like a flashing gem—For dawn had come unknown to them—And a slender beam, like a lance of gold,Shot to the crimson curtain-fold,Over the bended head of himWho pored and pored by the taper dim;And it kindled over his wrinkled browSuch words—"The law which was till now;"And I wondered that, under that morning ray,When night and shadow were scattered away,The monk should bow his locks of whiteBy a taper's feebly flickering light—Should pore, and pore, and never seemTo notice the golden morning-beam.