Sunday By The Loch Poem by Walter Wingate

‘Tis not the silent hill,
Nor the deserted pier;
A something that evades me still,
Announces Sabbath here.

No tinkling bell intrudes
Upon the morning calm;
The white cascade among the woods
Is all there is of psalm.

Becalmed is every cloud,
And all the winds at rest;
In laurel-dusk the thrush emboughed
Is mute upon his nest.

But something more, too deep
For my interpreting,
Proclaims as clear the Sabbath sleep
As willow buds the spring.