Wandering past an old cathedral wall

Where goblins with their growling faces glared

From stony turrets piercing through the pall

And griffins glowered with their grey teeth bared,

I sensed a pressing, lorn, long-stifled masque

Of chiseled players thrusting to the sky.

Such life in bloodless lips!  They bade me ask

How spirits so congealed could seem to sigh.

Conceived to guard this sanctum’s sacred power,

These creatures clogged the scene with airs profane:

Suggestions—doubtful, dolorous, and dour—

That neither walls nor sky could quite contain.

What demonry must well within my bones

That I should shrink at beastly, sculpted stones!