As soon as you enter, nothing is the same— A fact, perhaps, you knew before you came Inside. The shape alone, from down the street, Signals some fundamental and complete Transformation from what has come before, In motion by the time you touch the door.
The door—here, too, something seems amiss If known conventions be applied to this. Unlike the tidy portals near and next, Of chrome and glass, exquisitely Windexed, The knotted oak leaves outside witness blind, But those who enter know what they will find.
Come in— behold the old world pass away Beyond those oaken sentries. Though it may Have once diverted you with hustle and shine, You scarcely notice leaving it behind, As certain (perhaps all) things now seem new. Turn, then, to what lies ahead of you.
The air is different here, by which you mean Not only the aroma: in between The ceiling’s vault and your unexalted feet There floats a certain sense of your receipt By sitting here, of some ancient craftsmen’s goal That builders’ every stroke should prove their soul.
And what a proof! The cornerstones support A gilded, grained, and marbled saintly court Whose heights, impervious to man’s impeach, Stand high (on common stone) above your reach. Such beauty seems beyond mere mortals’ sphere, But such, indeed, were those who put it here.
The rituals begin, and you’re aware That others might see merely folly there. But others stand outside the oaken doors And have what sight their chosen place affords. The chorus swells, a hundred voices. Then, The structure proves the builder yet again.
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