In the light of the setting sun
I saw the stones of the cathedral
seemed to be made of gold, pure gold.
And the great white crane flew by
on wings that beat so slow, so slow,
much slower than the beating of my heart,
and turned not, but flew on, flew on.
And after sunset, in the dim gray light of evening
I touched the stones of the cathedral
and found they were not gold at all;
not gold but only stone, cold stone.
And the great white crane still flew,
and turned not back
past Canterbury’s cold, cold stone.
Tobias Stanislas Haller