Classic Poem

It is the vesper hour, and in yon aisle
Where fainting incense clouds the heavy air
My lady's kneeling at her evening prayer,
Alone and silently; for in a file
The choristers have passed, and left her there,
Where martyrs from the tinted windows stare,
And saints look downward with a holy smile
Upon her meek devotions, while the day
Fades slowly, and a tender amber light.
From coloured panes about her head doth play—
Her veil falls like a shade, and ghostly white
Her clasped hands glimmer through the deepening gray;
So will she kneel, until from Heaven's height
The Angels bend to hear their sister pray.