Sonnet¹ On Hearing The Dies Irae Sung In The Sistine Chapel²

　　Nay³， Lord， not thus！ white lilies in the spring，

　　Sad olive-groves， or silver-breasted dove，

　　Teach me more clearly of Thy life and love

　　Than terrors of red flame and thundering.

　　The hillside vines dear memories of Thee bring：

　　A bird at evening flying to its nest

　　Tells me of One who had no place of rest：

　　I think it is of Thee the sparrows sing.

　　Come rather on some autumn afternoon，

　　When red and brown are burnished⁴ on the leaves，

　　And the fields echo to the gleaner's song，

　　Come when the splendid fulness of the moon

　　Looks down upon the rows of golden sheaves，

　　And reap Thy harvest： we have waited long.