Oh the dear summer evening! How the air 
is mellow with the delicate breath of flowers 
and wafts of hay scent from the sunburnt swathes: 
how the glad song of life comes everywhence, 
from thousand harmless voices, from blithe birds 
that twitter on incessant sweet good-nights, 
from homeward bees that, through the clover tufts, 
stray booming, pilfering treasures to the last, 
from sleepless crickets clamouring in the grass. 
to tell the world they're happy day and night, 
from the persistent rooks in their high town, 
from sheep in far off meadows: life, life, life, 
it is the song they sing, and to my mind 
the song is very happy, very good. 
My God, I thank thee I have known this life, 
although, I doubt not, dying I shall learn 
how greater and how happier is death. 

Oh beautiful and various earth of ours, 
how good God made thee. Ah, I have lost much, 
mine is a very grey and dim earth now, 
but I can feel and hear and take in so 
the joy of present beauty to my soul, 
and then I see it there. O strange blurred mists, 
that mean the sky to me, my twilight eyes 
discern no more than you, but I see more; 
I see this gold and glowing sunset spread, 
and break the pale blue sky with flashing clouds, 
I see the shadows soften on the hills, 
and the green summits brighten one by one 
and purple in the nightfall one by one. 
Oh, seeing can be done without the eyes. 

Are those St Mary's church-bells in the town? 
How far sound spreads to-night! St Mary's bells, 
chiming for evensong. I would the way 
were not so over long for feeble limbs, 
and that the pathway and the still canal 
had not so like a glimmer in the dusk; 
for I could gladly feel the peace of prayer 
among the others in the quiet church, 
with silent graves seen through the open door, 
and rustling heard of slowly stirring leaves. 
And then 'tis pleasant too to hear the rhythm 
of scholars' English and of words in books: 
'tis like the voice of some rare foreign tongue 
familiar once and loved, that, howso heard, 
takes the glad ear with sweetness of old wont. 
Oh, there's no sermon now so trite and crude 
but makes for me a sort of literature: 
'tis my one echo now from that far world 
where books are read and written, my world once; 
I listen as one listens, note by note, 
to some great symphony one knows by heart, 
played powerlessly, uncertainly, with change 
and thinner chords to suit a learner's hand, 
listening with pleasure part for what there is 
and more for what there should be and what was 
when long ago one used to hear the strain: 
I seem to love words now because they are words. 

Not that I'll call our Vicar's sermon words: 
no, no; he loves his God and loves his poor; 
he makes his life one task of doing good; 
can such a man speak idly? What he does 
is proof to what he urges, his week's life 
soul to his Sunday preachings, his shown faith 
the key to his expoundings; one may learn 
from such a man more things than he can teach: 

Alas, the busy patience of his life, 
eager and resolute for little things, 
strenuous on petty labours, which no voice 
shall ever herald past the parish bounds, 
which maybe those who see them do not see, 
and those whose gain they are know not for gain, 
does it not twit me with my languid years 
drifted along expectant of a day 
when all my world should thank me I had waked? 
My world--ah, after all, a lesser one 
than I discerned when I was of it still, 
my world of men who learn and teach and learn, 
and then have only learned and taught and learned-- 
my world that has forgotten me, a waif 
floated away from it on too rough tides, 
left spoiled and stranded to drop piece by piece. 

Ah me, the difference: I have not known 
what envy means unless I know it now 
when, in my helplessness, sick, blind, and poor, 
past all fulfilling now, with nought fulfilled, 
I see our Vicar, with his cheery look, 
hurried and overladen with small cares, 
glad in his work because it is his work. 
And he'll not envy me my garnered lore, 
stored up for moth and mildew; what to him 
is any wisdom but to work and pray? 
the denizens of our rustic market town, 
which ignorant strangers take, and break our hearts, 
or just a village, know no Tübingen, 
have never heard of varying codices, 
love, or love not, the Christ of Luke and John, 
and have no guess of Renan's; to their minds 
belief and unbelief are simplest things, 
mere Yes and No, and God must side with Yes, 
as kings must with the loyal. But the love 
that comes of faith and faith that comes of love; 
they can learn those of him and he can teach, 
that plain man, ignorant of philosophies 
but wise enough to do good all the day.