BENEATH the edifice that men call Me,
Whose minarets attract the setting sun,
Whose portals to the passer-by are free,
Abides another one.
The heartheat of the organ throbs not there,
To jar the heavy silence of the soul;
Nor low amen of acolytes at prayer,
Nor bells that ring or toll.
Unsought, undreamed, save by the solemn few,
Who with a lantern lit of love descend,
To find the buried arches grim and true,
On which the walls depend!
Martha Gilbert Dickinson.