quote · Words worth keeping

How many blessed groups this hour are bending Through England’s primrose meadow paths, their way Towards spire and tower, ’midst shadowy elms descending, Whence the sweet chimes proclaim the hallowed day. The halls from old heroic ages grey, Pour their fair children forth; and hamlets low, With whose thick orchard blooms the soft winds play, Send out their inmates in a happy flow, Like a freed vernal stream. I may not tread With them those pathways—to the feverish bed Of sickness bound—yet oh my God! I bless Thy mercy, that with Sabbath peace hath filled My chastening heart, and all its throbbings stilled To one deep calm of lowliest thankfulness.

How many blessed groups this hour are bending Through England’s primrose meadow paths, their way Towards spire and tower, ’midst shadowy elms descending, Whence the sweet chimes proclaim the hallowed day. The halls from old heroic ages grey, Pour their fair children forth; and hamlets low, With whose thick orchard blooms the soft winds play, Send out their inmates in a happy flow, Like a freed vernal stream. I may not tread With them those pathways—to the feverish bed Of sickness bound—yet oh my God! I bless Thy mercy, that with Sabbath peace hath filled My chastening heart, and all its throbbings stilled To one deep calm of lowliest thankfulness.