WHAT an image of peace and rest | |
| Is this little church among its graves! | |
| All is so quiet; the troubled breast, | |
| The wounded spirit, the heart oppressed, | |
| Here may find the repose it craves. | 5 |
| |
| See, how the ivy climbs and expands | |
| Over this humble hermitage, | |
| And seems to caress with its little hands | |
| The rough, gray stones, as a child that stands | |
| Caressing the wrinkled cheeks of age! | 10 |
| |
| You cross the threshold; and dim and small | |
| Is the space that serves for the Shepherd’s Fold; | |
| The narrow aisle, the bare, white wall, | |
| The pews, and the pulpit quaint and tall, | |
| Whisper and say: “Alas! we are old.” | 15 |
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| Herbert’s chapel at Bemerton | |
| Hardly more spacious is than this; | |
| But poet and pastor, blent in one, | |
| Clothed with a splendor, as of the sun, | |
| That lowly and holy edifice. | 20 |
| |
| It is not the wall of stone without | |
| That makes the building small or great, | |
| But the soul’s light shining round about, | |
| And the faith that overcometh doubt, | |
| And the love that stronger is than hate. | 25 |
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| Were I a pilgrim in search of peace, | |
| Were I a pastor of Holy Church, | |
| More than a Bishop’s diocese | |
| Should I prize this place of rest and release | |
| From further longing and further search. | 30 |
| |
| Here would I stay, and let the world | |
| With its distant thunder roar and roll; | |
| Storms do not rend the sail that is furled; | |
| Nor like a dead leaf, tossed and whirled | |
| In an eddy of wind, is the anchored soul. | 35 |
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