What an image of peace and rest
       &nbsp Is this little church among its graves!
All is so quiet; the troubled breast,
The wounded spirit, the heart oppressed,
       &nbsp Here may find the repose it craves.

See, how the ivy climbs and expands
       &nbsp Over this humble hermitage,
And seems to caress with its little hands
The rough, gray stones, as a child that stands
       &nbsp Caressing the wrinkled cheeks of age!

You cross the threshold; and dim and small
       &nbsp Is the space that serves for the Shepherd's Fold;
The narrow aisle, the bare, white wall,
The pews, and the pulpit quaint and tall,
       &nbsp Whisper and say: "Alas! we are old."

Herbert's chapel at Bemerton
       &nbsp Hardly more spacious is than this;
But Poet and Pastor, blent in one,
Clothed with a splendor, as of the sun,
       &nbsp That lowly and holy edifice.

It is not the wall of stone without
       &nbsp That makes the building small or great
But the soul's light shining round about,
And the faith that overcometh doubt,
       &nbsp And the love that stronger is than hate.
Were I a pilgrim in search of peace,
       &nbsp Were I a pastor of Holy Church,
More than a Bishop's diocese
Should I prize this place of rest, and release
       &nbsp From farther longing and farther search.

Here would I stay, and let the world
       &nbsp With its distant thunder roar and roll;
Storms do not rend the sail that is furled;
Nor like a dead leaf, tossed and whirled
       &nbsp In an eddy of wind, is the anchored soul.