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Poem	The chapel looms against the sky, Above the vine-clad shelves, And as the peasants pass it by They cross themselves. But I alone, I grieve to state, Lack sentiment divine: A citified sophisticate, I make no sign. Their gesture may a habit be, Mechanic in a sense, Yet somehow it awakes in me Strange reverence. And though from ignorance it stem, Somehow I deeply grieve, And wish down in my heart like them I could believe. Suppose a cottage I should buy, And little patch of vine, With pure and humble spirit I Might make the Sign. Aye, though I godless way I go, And sceptic in my trend, A faith in something I don't know Might save me in the end.
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