 | The Collected Poems of Philip Bourke Marston |  |
UNSEEN WORSHIP.
My face is from the world, and turned mine eyes
Upon the sacred image of my past,—
Still as a sculptured saint, whose shade is cast
On some cathedral aisle. Sad music sighs
About its placid silence; on it lies
That fleeting light divine, too rare to last,
Our Wordsworth caught, entranced. From sins that blast,
No soul to this calm saint for refuge flies;
Upon the sacred image of my past,—
Still as a sculptured saint, whose shade is cast
On some cathedral aisle. Sad music sighs
About its placid silence; on it lies
That fleeting light divine, too rare to last,
Our Wordsworth caught, entranced. From sins that blast,
No soul to this calm saint for refuge flies;
But none of all Christ's votaries who fall
In mad excess of worship on the rood
That bears His image crucified, and lay
Their lips in kisses to the sacred wood,
Have worshipped as my soul, apart from all,
Worships unseen, its idol, night and day.
In mad excess of worship on the rood
That bears His image crucified, and lay
Their lips in kisses to the sacred wood,
Have worshipped as my soul, apart from all,
Worships unseen, its idol, night and day.
| The Collected Poems of Philip Bourke Marston | |