Shy maids have haunts of still delight,
by Norman Rowland Gale
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!