In A Greek Orthodox Church

I do not share
That particular view of God.
The manner of their worship
Which they call ‘Orthodox’
To me seemed wayward — even bizarre.
Too many saints by far
Stared from their icons,
Faces, haloed in tawdry tin, identical,
Named, to be sure,
But in Greek letters,
Decorative, but unintelligible.
Under the dusty dome
The place was dark and dank and comfortless,
Devoid of pew and hassock,
— None too clean.

Simply from courtesy to foreign hosts
I took a candle
Paid an appropriate coin.

Yet, when the flame,
Like a young opening leaf,
Grew from its waxen stem,
I was aware that some
Unguessed–at need in me
Was oddly gratified.