At the Church-Gate

William Makepeace Thackeray (1811–1863)

ALTHOUGH I enter not,

Yet round about the spot

Ofttimes I hover;

And near the sacred gate

With longing eyes I wait,

Expectant of her.

The minster bell tolls out

Above the city’s rout,

And noise and humming;

They ’ve hushed the minster bell;

The organ ’gins to swell;

She ’s coming, coming!

My lady comes at last,

Timid and stepping fast,

And hastening hither,

With modest eyes downcast;

She comes,—she ’s here, she ’s past!

May Heaven go with her!

Kneel undisturbed, fair saint!

Pour out your praise or plaint

Meekly and duly;

I will not enter there,

To sully your pure prayer

With thoughts unruly.

But suffer me to pace

Round the forbidden place,

Lingering a minute,

Like outcast spirits, who wait,

And see, through heaven’s gate,

Angels within it.