Verse > Anthologies > Harriet Monroe, ed. > Poetry: A Magazine of Verse, 1912–22
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Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936).  Poetry: A Magazine of Verse.  1912–22.
 
In the Cathedral
By F. S. Flint
 
I HAVE not dipped my hand in the stoup,
Nor bent my knee towards the altar
Far away at the end of the nave.
The crucifix towers dimly above it.
Is this my God?        5
 
The Stations of the Cross
Are white on the dull-brown brickwork.
Poor naked cathedral!
One pillar alone is clothed
With green marble.        10
 
O gloom of the aisles,
And darkness made darker
By the candles burning in corners
Here and there
In front of the images!        15
Why am I moved?
Is this the house of my God?
 
The voices of the priests far-off
Near the altar
Have sound and no meaning as words;        20
But they fill the church with life
And peace and resignation.
The music of it enters my heart.
 
O God, you need me, I know,
Or why am I here, why am I?        25
You will not cast me off,
You cannot—O God, I say it
With a humble and desperate heart.
I am the least worthy atom of your Person,
But of you, or nothing at all.        30
And this woman,
Kneeling in her ragged clothes
Before the saint with the ten lighted candles,
Is happier than I:
Her worn and battered face        35
Is shining with certainty.
She is in heaven, and I—
My heart is twisted with sobs,
And my eyes are weeping.
 
And yet, as I leave the cathedral,        40
I do not dip my hand in the stoup.
 
 
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