DOOMED as we are our native dust To wet with many a bitter shower, It ill befits us to disdain The altar, to deride the fane, Where simple Sufferers bend, in trust To win a happier hour. I love, where spreads the village lawn, Upon some knee-worn cell to gaze: Hail to the firm unmoving cross, Aloft, where pines their branches toss! And to the chapel far withdrawn, That lurks by lonely ways! Where'er we roam -- along the brink Of Rhine -- or by the sweeping Po, Through Alpine vale, or champain wide, Whate'er we look on, at our side Be Charity! -- to bid us think, And feel, if we would know. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...IN A STRANGE CITY by LOUIS UNTERMEYER TO THE FAIR CLARINDA, WHO MADE LOVE TO ME by APHRA BEHN THE YOUNG GLASS-STAINER by THOMAS HARDY TO HIS MISTRESS OBJECTING TO HIM NEITHER TOYING OR TALKING by ROBERT HERRICK LAMENT by EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY |