The chapel looms against the sky, br Above the vine-clad shelves, br And as the peasants pass it by br They cross themselves. br But I alone, I grieve to state, br Lack sentiment divine: br A citified sophisticate, br I make no sign. br br Their gesture may a habit be, br Mechanic in a sense, br Yet somehow it awakes in me br Strange reverence. br And though from ignorance it stem, br Somehow I deeply grieve, br And wish down in my heart like them br I could believe. br br Suppose a cottage I should buy, br And little patch of vine, br With pure and humble spirit I br Might make the Sign. br Aye, though I godless way I go, br And sceptic in my trend, br A faith in something I don't know br Might save me in the end.