HOW many blessed groups this hour are bending, Thro' England's primrose meadow-paths, their way Towards spire and tower, 'midst shadowy elms ascending, Whence the sweet chimes proclaim the hallowed day! The halls from old heroic ages gray 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, O my God! I bless Thy mercy, that with Sabbath-peace hath filled My chastened heart, and all its throbbings stilled To one deep calm of lowliest thankfulness! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SURFACES AND MASKS; 7 by CLARENCE MAJOR A GOODNIGHT by WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS ECSTACY by KENNETH SLADE ALLING WHEN DEATH HAS LOST THE KEY by KENNETH SLADE ALLING I AM FREEZING by JOHANNA AMBROSIUS |