Shy maids have haunts of still delight, <br />The lover glades he never tells; <br />And one is mine where mass the bright <br />And odoured chimes of foxglove-bells. <br /> <br />A dewy, covert, silent place <br />Where surely long ago God walked <br />Close to His creature's blinded face, <br />And for his finer moulding talked. <br /> <br />There hawthorn glows as if, white-hot, <br />God present, it were sacred found <br />To preach a creed too oft forgot-- <br />That all we tread is holy ground. <br /> <br />Ah, could we but remember this, <br />Our thoughts would spring as purely up <br />To labour for our fellows' bliss <br />As doth to heaven a snowdrop's cup!<br /><br />Norman Rowland Gale<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/holy-ground/
