Sadly the dead leaves rustle in the whistling wind, Around the weather-worn, grey church, low down the vale: The Saints in golden vesture shake before the gale; The glorious windows shake, where still they dwell enshrined; Old Saints by long-dead, shrivelled hands, long since designed: There still, although the world autumnal be, and pale, Still in their golden vesture the old Saints prevail; Alone with Christ, desolate else, left by mankind. Only one ancient Priest offers the Sacrifice, Murmuring holy Latin immemorial: Swaying with tremulous hands the old censer full of spice, In grey, sweet incense clouds; blue, sweet clouds mystical: To him, in place of men, for he is old, suffice Melancholy remembrances and vesperal. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A SHROPSHIRE LAD: 27 by ALFRED EDWARD HOUSMAN TO A CHILD OF QUALITY, FIVE YEARS OLD. THE AUTHOR THAN FORTY by MATTHEW PRIOR LOVE IN A COTTAGE by NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS BARCAROLE: DE VIGNY by E. G. B. THE NEW ANTHEM by NORMAN BOLKER MOONLIGHT NIGHT by ERMINIE BROADSTONE THE GLADNESS OF NATURE by WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT THE WANDERER: 1. IN ITALY: ONCE by EDWARD ROBERT BULWER-LYTTON |