In the Cathedral
a poem by Frank Stewart Flint
I have not dipped my hand in the stoup,
Nor bent my knee towards the altar
Far away at the end of the nave.
The crucifix towers dimly above it.
Is this my God?
The Stations of the Cross
Are white on the dull-brown brickwork.
Poor naked cathedral!
One pillar alone is clothed
With green marble.
O gloom of the aisles,
And darkness made darker
By the candles burning in corners
Here and there
In front of the images!