There is a glen whose lichened boles
Straight as cathedral columns stand;
A place wherein the humbler souls,
Barred from what once was their own land,
Church of the wild, no angel wing
Motionless flight on boss or beam;
No choristers but thrushes sing,
The music rises from the stream,
And stray lambs speak.
No stained-glass lancets hide the sun
But leaf on leaf in deepening green;
Along the aisle furred creatures run,
Upon their grave no brasses seen;
Here are the meek.
Here are the shy and quiet folk,
Whose eyes glance swiftly from the fern;
Those who were lords ere man had awoke
His shameless cruelties to learn,
Making earth bleak.
Mona’s Herald 6.3.62