• 'Tis of the Father Hilary.
• He strove, but could not pray; so took
• The steep-coiled stair, where his feet shook
• A sad blind echo. Ever up
• He toiled. 'Twas a sick sway of air
• That autumn noon within the stair,
• As dizzy as a turning cup.
• His brain benumbed him, void & thin;
• He shut his eyes and felt it spin;
• 10 The obscure deafness hemmed him in.
• He said: “O world, what world for me?”

• He leaned unto the balcony
• Where the chime keeps the night & day;
• It hurt his brain, he could not pray.
• He had his face upon the stone:
• Deep 'twixt the narrow shafts, his eye
• Passed all the roofs to the stark sky,
• Swept with no wing, with wind alone.
• Close to his feet the sky did shake
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• 20 With wind in pools that the rains make;
• The ripple set his eyes to ache.
• He said: “O world, what world for me?”

• He stood within the mystery
• Girding God's blessed Eucharist:
• The organ and the chaunt had ceas'd.
• The last words paused against his ear
• Said from the altar: drawn round him
• The gathering rest was dumb and dim.
• And now the sacring-bell rang clear
• 30 And ceased; and all was awe,—the breath
• Of God in man that warranteth
• The inmost utmost things of faith.
• He said: “O God, my world in thee!”

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