Marvel of marvels, if I myself shall behold

With mine own eyes my King in His city of gold;

Where the least of lambs is spotless white in the fold,

Where the least and last of saints in spotless white is stoled,

Where the dimmest head beyond a moon is aureoled.

O saints, my beloved, now mouldering to mould in the mould,

Shall I see you lift your heads, see your cerements unroll’d,

See with these very eyes? who now in darkness and cold

Tremble for the midnight cry, the rapture, the tale untold, —

The Bridegroom cometh, cometh, His Bride to enfold!

Cold it is, my beloved, since your funeral bell was toll’d:

Cold it is, O my King, how cold alone on the wold!