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Milan Cathedral By Herman Melville |
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Through light green haze, a rolling sea Over gardens where redundance flows, The fat old plain of Lombardy, The White Cathedral shows. Of Art the miracles Its tribes of pinnacles Gleam like to ice-peaks snowed; and higher, Erect upon each airy spire In concourse without end, Statues of saints over saints ascend Like multitudinous forks of fire. What motive was the master-builder's here? Why these synodic hierarchies given, Sublimely ranked in marble sessions clear, Except to signify the host of heaven. | |||||||||||||
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