INSIDE OF KING'S COLLEGE CHAPEL, CAMBRIDGE

                 Tax not the royal Saint with vain expense,
                 With ill-matched aims the Architect who planned —
                 Albeit labouring for a scanty band
                 Of white-robed Scholars only — this immense
                 And glorious Work of fine intelligence!
                 Give all thou canst; high Heaven rejects the lore
                 Of nicely-calculated less or more;
                 So deemed the man who fashioned for the sense
                 These lofty pillars, spread that branching roof
                 Self-poised, and scooped into ten thousand cells,
                 Where light and shade repose, where music dwells
                 Lingering — and wandering on as loth to die;
                 Like thoughts whose very sweetness yieldeth proof
                 That they were born for immortality.

Отправить