Although I enter not, Yet round about the spot Ofttimes I hover; And near the sacred gate With longing eyes I wait, Expectant of her. The minster bell tolls out Above the city’s rout, And noise and humming; They ’ve hushed the minster bell; The organ ’gins to swell; She ’s coming, coming! My lady comes at last, Timid and stepping fast, And hastening hither, With modest eyes downcast; She comes,—she ’s here, she ’s past! May Heaven go with her! Kneel undisturbed, fair saint! Pour out your praise or plaint Meekly and duly; I will not enter there, To sully your pure prayer With thoughts unruly. But suffer me to pace Round the forbidden place, Lingering a minute, Like outcast spirits, who wait, And see, through heaven’s gate, Angels within it.
At the Church-Gate
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