THE GLORY

Myriad candles windy flaring Over faces stilled in prayer; Silken banners, icon-bearing, Jewelled vestments, laces rare— All the people in a daze, Walking in a candle-haze, Of uplifted pure amaze. All the people in a stream, Crowding in an Easter dream; While choragic song Pours from out the throng— “It is the Glory—holy holiday.” So, smiling, good Athenians say. Priests in choir, softly singing, Carry the Pantokrator, While the city-bells are ringing In their wild two-toned uproar; All the people, in a mass, With the purple-robed Papas, Bearing crosses made of brass, Scarlet cap, and fustanelle, Turkish fez, and bead, and bell, While choragic song Leads the trancèd throng. “It is the Glory—holy holiday,” So, smiling, good Athenians say. Colored lights, and dripping torches, Burn on Lykabettos crags; In the narrow streets and porches Whole-sheep roasting never flags. Bonfires all the country light, Up to dark Hymettus’ height, Making all the hillsides bright. Still the surging crowds advance, Moving, moving in a trance; While choragic song Leads the trancèd throng. “It is the Glory—holy holiday,” So, smiling, good Athenians say. In their wistful majesty, See them waiting for a sign, Of religious unity From the human or divine; Faithful, yearning, poor, uncouth, Pagan-born, yet craving truth— Old grey-heads and stripling youth. All the people in a stream, Holding candles in a dream, While choragic song Swells throughout the throng. “It is the Glory—holy holiday,” This, smiling, good Athenians say.