Norman Rowland Gale

Here you will find the Poem Holy Ground of poet Norman Rowland Gale

Holy Ground

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!