I
'Mid glad green miles of tillage
And fields where cattle graze,
A prosy little village,
You drowse away the days.
And yet — a wakeful glory
Clings round you as you doze;
One living lyric story
Makes music of your prose.
Here once, returning never,
The feet of song have trod;
And flashed — Oh, once forever! —
The singing Flame of God.