Wild honey from various thyme :: :: University of Virginia Library

God, Thou art gathering in Thy bosom's fold
The hundred years where all I love drew breath,
And sought and found their little age of gold,
And fell on dreams awhile, then fell on death.
Oh, sweet the summers that have known their praise,
The English hedgerows where the catkins blew
When they were passing by or breathed the time
Of the roses red and white and all their dew!
Oh, blest to them the earth, to them the sky!
But now, of human kind, one only hears
How ran their accents when great news befell:
Gone are those days of simple miracle:
Thou coverest their voices with the years.