Fuess and Stearns, comps. The Little Book of Society Verse. 1922.
By. William Makepeace ThackerayAt the Church Gate
A
Yet round about the spot
Ofttimes I hover:
And near the sacred gate
With longing eyes I wait
Expectant of her.
Above the city’s rout,
And noise and humming:
They’ve hushed the Minster bell;
The organ ’gins to swell:
She’s coming, she’s coming!
Timid, and stepping fast,
And hastening hither,
With modest eyes downcast:
She comes—she’s here—she’s past—
May Heaven go with her!
Pour out your praise or plaint
Meekly and duly;
I will not enter there,
To sully your poor prayer
With thoughts unruly.
Round the forbidden place,
Lingering a minute
Like outcast spirits who wait
And see through heaven’s gate
Angels within it.