By George Sterling

Eventless days have left me too serene,
    And little know I of the House of Pain;
    But at the falling of the midnight's rain,
Within that scarlet chancel shall be seen
Her face of adverse marble, chill and keen,
    Whose mystery the worlds implore in vain.
    The sphinx of an intolerable fane,
She drowses as the years go forth to gleam.

Her floor is channeled by the feet of all,
    For all have knelt before her, soon or late.
        A few are made her chosen, they that know
More than her lesser ritual—they whose call
    Is her profounder music, as they wait
        And think (and dread to think) of crypts below.

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