VIII: Within a Springville Chapel

And here He is: our Rock and Word of joy,

somewhere about the air about this place.

‘twas here I knew Him when I was a boy,

and where I went to learn about His grace.

How quick that Spirit leaves me when I part,

and find myself in roads that praise Him not.

How empty can I find my weary heart,

when, lone, I hardly spare for Him a thought?

I hear the birds, though under-roof I’m found.

A window must be propped about these walls.

Or maybe Heaven’s Dove doth make this sound—

who sings and, all the host of Hell, appalls.

The Spirit of these walls can be so heard

wherever on this earth there is a bird.