In
a Whispering Gallery
That
whisper takes the voice
Of a Spirit,
speaking
to me,
Close,
but
invisible,
And throws me under a spell
At the kindling vision
it brings;
And for a moment I rejoice,
And believe in
transcendent things
That would make of this muddy earth
A spot
for the splendid birth
Of everlasting lives,
Whereto no night
arrives;
And this gaunt gray gallery
A tabernacle of worth
On
this drab-aired afternoon,
When you can barely see
Across its
hazed lacune
If opposite aught there be
Of fleshed
humanity
Wherewith I may commune;
Or if the voice so near
Be
a soul’s voice floating here.
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