Christ In The Museum

BRONZE bells and incense burners, and a flight Of birds born out of iron, and fine as spray; A dial that told the longest summer day How sure, how swift the night: And o'er the silent treasury, so high No lips may kiss, no grieving hands have clung, Numbered and ticketed, the Christ is hung. The many pass Him by, None pause. Here come no agonies, no dreams. Nothing is here to hurt Him, nor to wake. Year after year the golden iris gleams A little paler by her lacquered lake, And the dust gathers on the hands, the side, The lonely head of Love the crucified.