he ceiling

The ceiling is a vault of ribbed fans in which light, shadow, thought, and harmony linger.

Inside Of King’s College Chapel, Cambridge

— by William Wordsworth

Tax not the royal Saint with vain expense, With ill-matched aims the Architect who planned— Albeit labouring for a scanty band Of white robed Scholars only—this immense And glorious Work of fine intelligence! Give all thou canst; high Heaven rejects the lore Of nicely-calculated less or more; So deemed the man who fashioned for the sense These lofty pillars, spread that branching roof Self-poised, and scooped into ten thousand cells, Where light and shade repose, where music dwells Lingering and wandering on as loth to die; Like thoughts whose very sweetness yieldeth proof That they were born for immortality.