A Gothic Church Is A Petrified Religion.

Trochee Trips From Long To Short; From Long To Long In Solemn Sort Slow Spondee Stalks.

The Fair Breeze Blew, The White Foam Flew, And The Forrow Followed Free. We Were The First To Ever Burst Into The Silent Sea.

No Voice; But Oh - The Silence Sank Like Music On My Heart.

That Willing Suspension Of Disbelief For The Moment, Which Constitutes Poetic Faith.

He Went Like One That Hath Been Stunn'd, And Is Of Sense Forlorn: A Sadder And A Wiser Man He Rose The Morrow Morn.