Norman Rowland Gale

(1862-1942 / England)

Holy Ground - Poem by Norman Rowland Gale

Shy maids have haunts of still delight,
The lover glades he never tells;
And one is mine where mass the bright
And odoured chimes of foxglove-bells.

A dewy, covert, silent place
Where surely long ago God walked
Close to His creature's blinded face,
And for his finer moulding talked.

There hawthorn glows as if, white-hot,
God present, it were sacred found
To preach a creed too oft forgot--
That all we tread is holy ground.

Ah, could we but remember this,
Our thoughts would spring as purely up
To labour for our fellows' bliss
As doth to heaven a snowdrop's cup!


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Read poems about / on: remember, spring, heaven, god



Poem Submitted: Friday, January 3, 2003



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