I The Church Flings Forth A Battled Shade Over The Moon-Blanched Sward; The Church; My Gift; Whereto I Paid My All In Hand And Hoard: Lavished My Gains With Stintless Pains To Glorify The Lord. Ii I Squared The Broad Foundations In Of Ashlared Masonry; I Moulded Mullions Thick And Thin, Hewed Fillet And Ogee; I Circleted Each Sculptured Head With Nimb And Canopy. Iii I Called In Many A Craftsmaster To Fix Emblazoned Glass, To Figure Cross And Sepulchre On Dossal, Boss, And Brass. My Gold All Spent, My Jewels Went To Gem The Cups Of Mass. Iv I Borrowed Deep To Carve The Screen And Raise The Ivoried Rood; I Parted With My Small Demesne To Make My Owings Good. Heir-Looms Unpriced I Sacrificed, Until Debt-Free I Stood. V So Closed The Task. "Deathless The Creed Here Substanced!" Said My Soul: "I Heard Me Bidden To This Deed, And Straight Obeyed The Call. Illume This Fane, That Not In Vain I Build It, Lord Of All!" Vi But, As It Chanced Me, Then And There Did Dire Misfortunes Burst; My Home Went Waste For Lack Of Care, My Sons Rebelled And Curst; Till I Confessed That Aims The Best Were Looking Like The Worst. Vii Enkindled By My Votive Work No Burning Faith I Find; The Deeper Thinkers Sneer And Smirk, And Give My Toil No Mind; From Nod And Wink I Read They Think That I Am Fool And Blind. Viii My Gift To God Seems Futile, Quite; The World Moves As Erstwhile; And Powerful Wrong On Feeble Right Tramples In Olden Style. My Faith Burns Down, I See No Crown; But Cares, And Griefs, And Guile. Ix So Now, The Remedy? Yea, This: I Gently Swing The Door Here, Of My Fane - No Soul To Wis - And Cross The Patterned Floor To The Rood-Screen That Stands Between The Nave And Inner Chore. X The Rich Red Windows Dim The Moon, But Little Light Need I; I Mount The Prie-Dieu, Lately Hewn From Woods Of Rarest Dye; Then From Below My Garment, So, I Draw This Cord, And Tie Xi One End Thereof Around The Beam Midway 'Twixt Cross And Truss: I Noose The Nethermost Extreme, And In Ten Seconds Thus I Journey Hence - To That Land Whence No Rumour Reaches Us. Xii Well: Here At Morn They'll Light On One Dangling In Mockery Of What He Spent His Substance On Blindly And Uselessly! . . . "He Might," They'll Say, "Have Built, Some Way. A Cheaper Gallows-Tree!"