The treasure of the valley, red and tall
They rise, those sandstone fragments, overgrown
With fern and ivy and sweet blossom sown
By pitying winds. From broken arch and wall
The harebell glistens; nightshade thickets pall
Bruised effigy and sunken altar-stone.
What man rejected, Nature makes her own;
Her comfort creeps where cross and pillar fall.
Still sacred, though in lieu of white procession
Of chanting monks, the mossy shafts look down
On children's blithe-voiced play; though robins nest
In sculptured angel-wing and carven crown;
Perchance more sacred, for the heart's confession
Lies bare to Him, the heart's eternal Quest.