The dust lay white upon the chisel-marks,
The beams still shewed the dimplings of the grain,
Above the chancel's gloom the crimson sparks
Of Christ's blood glowed upon the window-pane.
No brass or marble of a death was there,
The painted angels on the wall whirled down
Trumpeting to man's spirit everywhere,
The spire topped the bell-tower like a crown.
Now, on the tower-top, where the crockets ceased
Like lace against the sky, they set at pause
The golden wind-vane, that from west to east
Would turn his beak to tempests or to flaws.
It poised, it swung, it breasted the wind's stream,
The work was done, the hands had wrought the dream.