Page:Astrophel and other poems (IA astrophelotherpo00swiniala).pdf/108

 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.