The holy time is quiet as a nun Breathless with adoration.

The feather, whence the pen Was shaped that traced the lives of these good men, Dropped from an angel's wing.

And often, glad no more, We wear a face of joy because We have been glad of yore.

I listened, motionless and still; And, as I mounted up the hill, The music in my heart I bore, Long after it was heard no more.

Our meddling intellect Misshapes the beauteous forms of things We murder to dissect

And much it grieved my heart to think What man has made of man.

But thou that didst appear so fair To fond imagination, Dost rival in the light of day Her delicate creation.