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!