What an image of peace and rest Is this little church among its graves! All is so quiet; the troubled breast, The wounded spirit, the heart oppressed, Here may find the repose it craves. See, how the ivy climbs and expands Over this humble hermitage, And seems to caress with its little hands The rough, gray stones, as a child that stands Caressing the wrinkled cheeks of age! You cross the threshold; and dim and small 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, Whisper and say: "Alas! we are old." Herbert's chapel at Bemerton Hardly more spacious is than this; But Poet and Pastor, blent in one, Clothed with a splendor, as of the sun, That lowly and holy edifice. It is not the wall of stone without That makes the building small or great But the soul's light shining round about, And the faith that overcometh doubt, And the love that stronger is than hate. Were I a pilgrim in search of peace, Were I a pastor of Holy Church, More than a Bishop's diocese Should I prize this place of rest, and release From farther longing and farther search. Here would I stay, and let the world With its distant thunder roar and roll; Storms do not rend the sail that is furled; Nor like a dead leaf, tossed and whirled In an eddy of wind, is the anchored soul.