Although I enter not, 
Yet round about the spot, 
Ofttimes I hover, 
And near the sacred gate, 
With longing eyes I wait, 
Expectant of her. 

The minster-bell tolls out 
Above the city's rout, 
And noise and humming; 
They've hushed the minster-bell, 
The organ 'gins to swell, -- 
She's coming, -- coming! 

My lady comes at last, 
Timid and stepping fast, 
And hastening hither, 
With modest eyes downcast; 
She comes, -- she's here, -- she's past; 
May heaven go with her! 

Kneel undisturbed, fair saint, 
Pour out your praise or plaint 
Meekly and duly; 
I will not enter there, 
To sully your pure prayer, 
With thoughts unruly. 

But suffer me to pace 
Round the forbidden place, 
Lingering a minute, 
Like outcast spirits who wait, 
And see, through heaven's gate, 
Angels within it.