The Solo

I gaze on the painted windows,
The columns ashy and cold,
The frescoed saints in the arches,
The ceiling of azure and gold.

The organ thunders and shudders
Like a monster dying in pain;
The chorus has wailed its parting,
Lamenting, repenting in vain.

Then out of the gloom arises
A angel whose wings are furled
You lift your voice in the solo,
And I fly from a woful world.

I traverse ethereal oceans;
Above me are marvellous skies;
I win the islands of Glory
And the beaches of Paradise.

You guide me, I care not whither
So long as I hear you sing;
Grief dies and toil is forgotten;
Ah, life is a heavenly thing.

Then silence falls like a terror
That blanches the face of mirth;
The solo ends, and I waken
To toil and sorrow and earth.