II

The crimson panes like blood-drops stigmatize
  The western floor. The aisles are mute and cold.
A rigid fetich in her robe of gold
  The Virgin of the Pillar, with blank eyes,
Enthroned beneath her votive canopies,
  Gathers a meagre remnant to her fold.
The rest is solitude; the church, grown old,
  Stands stark and gray beneath the burning skies.
Wellnigh again its mighty frame-work grows
  To be a part of nature's self, withdrawn
From hot humanity's impatient woes;
  The floor is ridged like some rude mountain lawn,
And in the east one giant window shows
  The roseate coldness of an Alp at dawn.