A poem is a painted windowpane!
From the market look into the chapel:
A gloomy and a dark confine.
It seems that way to Mr. Philistine:
Well might he be a bitter apple
And bitter all his life remain.
But just suppose he came inside,
Greeted the holy little shrine
Now colored with such light divine:
Story and ornament both shine,
Meaning and parable allied,
And fit for you, God’s children, to
Rejoice your eyes and be made new!
1815