THE WESTERN TOWERS

YORK MINSTER

They gaze into the sunset, into the Past

That is beautiful always,

Being God’s gathered harvest. They hold fast

On their praying faces

Time’s flaming wind a moment;

The burning thought that lifted them at last

Arresting the eternal.

They gaze into the Present, unaloof

From the prayerless, the unpraising.

Shaken and wheel beset they are the stuff

Of beauty’s equipoise

And all tranquillity.

They are the belfried centuries crying proof

That God is lovely.