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 BENEDICTIO DOMINI

Without, the sullen noises of the street! The voice of London, inarticulate, Hoarse and blaspheming, surges in to meet The silent blessing of the Immaculate.

Dark is the church, and dim the worshippers, Hushed with bowed heads as though by some old spell, While through the incense-laden air there stirs The admonition of a silver bell.

Dark is the church, save where the altar stands, Dressed like a bride, illustrious with light, Where one old priest exalts with tremulous hands The one true solace of man's fallen plight.

Strange silence here: without, the sounding street Heralds the world's swift passage to the fire; O Benediction, perfect and complete! When shall men cease to suffer and desire?

CARTHUSIANS

Through what long heaviness, assayed in what strange fire, Have these white monks been brought into the way of peace, Despising the world's wisdom and the world's desire, Which from the body of this death bring no release?