Through the slender tracery of what was once the east window, instead of glazed saint and crucifix, you may see the little town clasping its hill.
The purple clematis and the small lizard-like leaf of the ivy have laid tender hands on all that is left of that stately house of prayer.

The pigeons wheel round it, and nest in its niches.

The soft, contented murmur of bird praise has replaced the noise of bitter human prayer.

A thin wind-whipped grass holds the summit of the broken walls against all corners.

The fallen stones, quaintly carved with angel and griffin, are going slowly back year by year, helped by the rain and hindered by the frost, slowly back through the sod to the generations of human hands that held and hewed them, and fell to dust below them hundreds of years ago.