At the dark early hour
When the open door of the church
Is pumping out light,
The sacristan is at work, unfolding
The stacked chairs, he carries them
Out of the porch, into the glow.
They spread wide like daisies,
They turn to the wide gold rose.
Follow it, ranked in rings.
And still it is not day
And the morning papers are lying
Dropped by gates in grey piles,
When the first pilgrims arrive,
Slipping into the dark shell of the porch,
To squat on the stone —
The practised knees doubled against the breastbone,
The elbows not interfering. They are packed
Lightly as drifted rubbish in corners.
They never obscure the blazing outline of the arch
Lying open for the real congregation
To roll up punctually in cars,
The knights with medals and white gloves.