Now the golden leafage is beggared. Shining through the porches of autumn, Shows the cool blue stillness of heaven. Lo, the thin-trunked grove is transcended: Carved in stone, a columned cathedral. Smoke-scrolls wind about the frail friezes; Flung above the doors is a curtain— Open-work: like nets of God's fishers That the catch has slipped through and broken, Like thy tatters, sacred and lovely, At the entrance of a white temple, Oh thou golden mendicant music! |