For in a meadow far from these
  A hodman treads across the loam,
Bearing his solid sanctities
  To that strange altar called his home.

I watch the tall, sagacious trees
  Turn as the monks do, every one;
The saplings, ardent novices,
  Turning with them towards the sun,

That Monstrance held in God's strong hands,
  Burnished in amber and in red;
God, His Own priest, in blessing stands;
  The earth, adoring, bows her head.

The idols of your market place,
  Your high debates, where are they now?
Your lawyers' clamour fades apace—
  A bird is singing on the bough!

Three fragile, sacramental things
  Endure, though all your pomps shall pass—
A butterfly's immortal wings,
  A daisy and a blade of grass.

The stars with their laughter are shaken;
  The long waves laugh at sea;
And the little Imp of Laughter
  Laughs in the soul of me.