Henry Wadsworth Longfellow — Old St. Davids at Radnor

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.