If Westminster Abbey won’t serve as a refuge from fear, groveling, and folly, Saint Paul’s should, and forever calm the spirits of those who died for others.

They dreamt not of a perishable home

— by William Wordsworth

They dreamt not of a perishable home Who thus could build. Be mine, in hours of fear Or groveling thought, to seek a refuge here; Or through the aisles of Westminster to roam: Where bubbles burst, and folly’s dancing foam Melts, if it cross the threshold; where the wreath Of awe-struck wisdom droops: or let my path Lead to that younger Pile, whose sky-like dome Hath typified by reach of daring art Infinity’s embrace; whose guardian crest, The silent Cross, among the stars shall spread As now, when She hath also seen her breast Filled with mementos, satiate with its part Of grateful England’s overflowing Dead.