 | The Poetical Works of Walter C. Smith |  |
So, wotting not his peril, he forsook
The pulpit where they welcomed him no more—
The wandering life that, weekly, pitched its tent
In some fresh home, where children laughed and sang,
And all the hopes that like the ivy grew
Green about old church towers: and sat him down
In a small garret with a new-made pen.
The pulpit where they welcomed him no more—
247
In some fresh home, where children laughed and sang,
And all the hopes that like the ivy grew
Green about old church towers: and sat him down
In a small garret with a new-made pen.
| The Poetical Works of Walter C. Smith | |