THROUGH THE TRIUMPHAL ARCH

To each opportunity there could only be one vicar, and
the snatching of it robbed the fellows of their due hurt.
T E Lawrence                                

The hands that built this arch
     hewed, from rough stone, the art
That bore their consciousness. I march
     through this time and space, no part
Of the vaulted air: robbed instead
     of that one chance to hew and form
A tomb to trap the grace that lies ahead.
     Wreathed in wonder I pass through to storm
The ruined city: careful not to forget
     the weary hours in which these stones were set