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.