Yet with what art, thro’ what enormous space,
With what innumerous threads how deftly plann’d,
Silverly separate in the subtle hand,
He winds the stories to their central place!
Nothing so false as may such art disgrace;
But colours here deliberately wann’d,
There as of fabled sunsets fading grand
Upon grey gods of high pathetic face.
Faint thro’ the laurel groves of Antioch
The last hymn dies, and the earth’s large regret
Divinely wails thro’ many a dusk-gold lawn.
Then a stern symbol rises from the rock-
The cross of Roman Syria grimly set,
Leafless, dim-lit in leaden-colour’d dawn.
(Archbishop William Alexander)
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