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.