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Pilgrimaged bareheaded to this cloister. In my right hand was the staff I fared with, And the holy rosary in my left hand. By the sanctuary I stayed my footsteps; To the wondrous shrine I crossed the threshold. Pouring through the lofty Gothic windows, Entered in the radiance of the sunshine. Empty was the house of God, deserted. I, methought, at meat shall find the brethren. Thither I behold the portals opened. All the tables still with fare are laden, But within the hall no living creature. Through long passeges alone I wander, Empty are the cells and all is silent, Naught is heard there save my echoing footsteps, Strange the echo sounds amid the vaultage. From the walls the portraits eye me gravely, Gazing down upon me, as in wonder, Images of priors long departed, Images of old Carthusian brothers. Soon a gentle terror comes upon me, Roaming here and there,—how long I know net; Stay, for floorwards, in the gloomy passage Standing but ajar I find a portal: From the hall comes chatter, noise and chanting. To this door I grope my way a-tiptoe, And I hear, I hear the strangest discourse. First a hush and then a voice sings loudly: