The West Builds High A Sepulcher Of Cloudy Granite And Of Gold, Where Twilight'S Priestly Hours Inter The Day Like Some Great King Of Old. A Censer, Rimmed With Silver Fire, The New Moon Swings Above His Tomb; While, Organ-Stops Of God'S Own Choir, Star After Star Throbs In The Gloom. And Night Draws Near, The Sadly Sweet - A Nun Whose Face Is Calm And Fair - And Kneeling At The Dead Day'S Feet Her Soul Goes Up In Mists Like Prayer. In Prayer, We Feel Through Dewy Gleam And Flowery Fragrance, And - Above All Earth - The Ecstasy And Dream That Haunt The Mystic Heart Of Love.