As the shreds of a plumage of gold on the ground
⁠The sun-flakes by multitudes lie,
Shed loose as the petals of roses discrowned
On the floors of the forest engilt and embrowned
⁠And reddened afar and anigh.

Dim centuries with darkling inscrutable hands
⁠Have reared and secluded the shrine
For gods that we know not, and kindled as brands
On the altar the years that are dust, and their sands
⁠Time's glass has forgotten for sign.

A temple whose transepts are measured by miles,
⁠Whose chancel has morning for priest,
Whose floor-work the foot of no spoiler defiles,
Whose musical silence no music beguiles,
⁠No festivals limit its feast.