Time’s waters will not ebb nor stay.

Sweet is the infant’s waking smile, And sweet the old man’s rest – But middle age by no fond wile, No soothing calm is blest.

Soft as Memnon’s harp at morning, To the inward ear devout, Touched by light, with heavenly warning Your transporting chords ring out. Every leaf in every nook, Every wave in every brook, Chanting with a solemn voice Minds us of our better choice.

As fire kindled by fire, so is the poet’s mind kindled by contact with a brother poet.

The voice that breathed o’er Eden, That earliest wedding day.

Pride of the dewy morning, The swain’s experienced eye From thee takes timely warning. Nor trusts the gorgeous sky.

Blest are the pure in heart, for they shall see our God. The secret of the Lord is theirs; Their soul is Christ’s abode.

If the Church of England were to fail, it would be found in my parish.

Peace is the first thing the angels sang.

And help us, this and every day, to live more nearly as we pray.