My Cathedral


    Like two cathedral towers these stately pines
        Uplift their fretted summits tipped with cones;
        The arch beneath them is not built with stones,
        Not Art but Nature traced these lovely lines,
    And carved this graceful arabesque of vines;
        No organ but the wind here sighs and moans,
        No sepulchre conceals a martyr's bones.
        No marble bishop on his tomb reclines.
    Enter! the pavement, carpeted with leaves,
        Gives back a softened echo to thy tread!
        Listen! the choir is singing; all the birds,
    In leafy galleries beneath the eaves,
        Are singing! listen, ere the sound be fled,
        And learn there may be worship with out words.


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Return to the Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Home Page, or . . . Read the next poem; My Lost Youth

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