And, faint and chill, life’s wintry sun
In gold had set; his Love was won.
WHAT WOULD I GIVE.
WRITTEN ON A SUNDAY IN GERMANY.
There, where the flowers more fragrant lie,
Crushed by the crowds that have pass’d them by,
Stands a chapel; and oft from its door
Hymns of the lowly worshippers pour,
Crush’d like the flowers, I trow.
O little Church, but what would I give,