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The Church at Malaucene
In this great empty church
The spirit
Shakes out its wings and rises.
There is a confusion of sound, the
Epitome of a labour that is lifelong.
Arduous, this mind-struggle,
This torment of will against matter
Each tearing the other.
Here the imagination weaves both
Background and pattern
Taken from nature,
Picked out by the implements
That are our senses.
And if sense is not enough,
The flood of feeling that leaves
A beach strewn, each object
Smoothed and bedded
With an articulate precision.
(If God is anything, it is the movement
From the particular to the general
When anything that might impede, joins).
The dome of the church
Pushes up a space against the sky
The church takes out a measure
From the town: in all
A vast, cool emptiness.
The resting place is soon,
A plateau the notes have found.
We can make an end here,
Diminishing; letting be;
Drawing to a close.
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