Its heart of joy, in charging chime,

So ring the songs that round and under

Her temple surge and climb.

[Pg 182]

XXXII

A temple not by men's hands builded,

But moulded of the spirit, and wrought

Of passion and imperious thought;

With light beyond all sunlight gilded,

Whereby the sun seems nought.

XXXIII

Thy shrine, our mother, seen for fairer

Than even thy natural face, made fair

With kisses of thine April air

Even now, when spring thy banner-bearer

Took up thy sign to bear;

XXXIV

Thine annual sign from heaven's own arch

Given of the sun's hand into thine,

To rear and cheer each wildwood shrine

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