Chartres
The kings, the saints, the martyrs, painted glass, Smashing the sunshine into brilliant stains. The light, transmuted, dyed, is left to pass Into the aisles, but wind and Autumn rains Complain behind the silent aura-ring Of king and saint and martyr on their panes.
The claws of arching stone triumphant cling To blazing glass, a world that stabs the eyes— The royal blood, the golden glazes sting.
Eyes closed, the aching heart must realize That beauty, like this burning wall glass-thin, Closes out truth-deceiving points, curves, dyes.
Stained windows can't look out, and don't let in The naked sunlight, Saints, kings, martyrs creep Across the day as free of flesh as sin.
Oh that one could forget, caught in this steep, Transcendent dazzle of the royal glass, The sun, wading through pagan fields thigh-deep, The fragrance of the newly-nibbled grass.
C. A. TRYPANI.
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