The glory of this church doth fly,
  across the cloud-light riddled sky,
  away, away, for none to see,
  too bright it was when shown to me.

Hidden, sacred, might be better,
  cover'd; still, removed my fetter,
  of fatigue and penduli that swing,
  to make me crave a lesser thing.

Now waiting for a friend that sits,
  amongst old books and knowledge lit,
  he ties forgotten years gone by,
  to soggy paths, and kites that fly.