“You’re so little, you know, and the church is so old, it can never
Last on till you’re tall.” And in whispers—because it was old
And holy, and fraught with strange meaning, half felt, but not told,
Full of old parsons’ prayers, who were dead, of old days, of old folk.
Neither heard nor beheld, but about us—in whispers we spoke.
Then we went from it softly, and ran hand in hand to the strand,
While bleating of flocks and birds’ piping made sweeter the land.
And Echo came back e’en as Oliver drew to the ferry,
“O Katie!” O Katie!” “Come on, then!” “Come on then!” “For see,
The round sun, all red, lying low by the tree”—“by the tree.”