Poetry Archives

The chapel looms against the sky,
       Above the vine-clad shelves,
And as the peasants pass it by
       They cross themselves.
But I alone, I grieve to state,
       Lack sentiment divine:
A citified sophisticate,
       I make no sign.
       
Their gesture may a habit be,
       Mechanic in a sense,
Yet somehow it awakes in me
       Strange reverence.
And though from ignorance it stem,
       Somehow I deeply grieve,
And wish down in my heart like them
       I could believe.

Suppose a cottage I should buy,
       And little patch of vine,
With pure and humble spirit I
       Might make the Sign.
Aye, though I godless way I go,
       And sceptic in my trend,
A faith in something I don’t know
       Might save me in the end.