Here you will find the Poem Holy Ground of poet 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!