Читать книгу The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 18, No. 105, July 1866 - Various - Страница 2

I enter, and see thee in the gloom

Of the long aisles, O poet saturnine!

And strive to make my steps keep pace with thine.

The air is filled with some unknown perfume;

The congregation of the dead make room

For thee to pass; the votive tapers shine;

Like rooks that haunt Ravenna's groves of pine

The hovering echoes fly from tomb to tomb.

From the confessionals I hear arise

Rehearsals of forgotten tragedies,

And lamentations from the crypts below;

And then a voice celestial that begins

With the pathetic words, "Although your sins

As scarlet be," and ends with "as the snow."