James Joyce

GAUNT in gloom

The pale stars their torches,

Enshrouded, wave.

Ghost-fires from heaven’s far verges faint illume—

Arches on soaring arches—

Night’s sin-dark nave.

Seraphim

The lost hosts awaken

To service, till

In moonless gloom each lapses, muted, dim,

Raised when she has and shaken

Her thurible.

And long and loud

To night’s nave upsoaring,

A star-knell tolls—

As the bleak incense surges, cloud on cloud,

Voidward from the adoring

Waste of souls.