IN A NORMAN CHURCH
As over incense-laden air
{{gap}}Stole winter twilight, soft and dim,
The folk arose fom their last prayer —
{{gap}}When hark! the children's hymn.

Round yon great pillar, circlewise,
{{gap}}The singers stand up two and two —
Small lint-haired girls from whose young eyes
{{gap}}The gay sea looks at you.

Now heavenward the pure music wins
{{gap}}With cadence soft and silvery beat.
In flutes and subtle violins
{{gap}}Are harmonies less sweet.

It is a chant with plaintive ring,
{{gap}}And rhymes and refrains old and quaint.
"Oh Monseigneur saint Jacques",they sing,
{{gap}}And "Oh Assisi's saint."

Through deepening dusk one just can see
{{gap}}The little white-capped heads that move
In time to lines turned rhythmically
{{gap}}And starred wite names of love.

Bred in no gentle silken ease,
{{gap}}Trained to expect no splendid fate,
They are but peasant children these,
{{gap}}Of very mean estate.

Nay, is that true ? To-night perhaps
{{gap}}Unworldlier eyes had well discerned
Among those little gleaming caps
{{gap}}An aureole that burned.

For once 'twas thought the Gates of Pearl
{{gap}}Best opened to the poor that trod
The path of the meek peasant girl
{{gap}}Who bore the Son of God. {{right|
{{sc|Victor Plarr}}.}}