LXII.

A mighty window, hollow in the centre, Shorn of its glass of thousand colourings, Through which the deepened glories once could enter, Streaming from off the Sun like Seraph's wings, Now yawns all desolate: now loud, now fainter, The gale sweeps through its fretwork, and oft sings The owl his anthem, where the silenced quire Lie with their Hallelujahs quenched like fire.