So I,—rejoicing once again to stand
Where Siloa's brook flows softly, and the meads
Are all enamell'd o'er with deathless flowers,
And Angel voices fill the dewy air.
Strife is so hateful to me! most of all
A strife of words about the things of God.
Better by far the peasant's uncouth speech
Meant for the heart's confession of its hope.
Sweeter by far in village-school the words
But half remembered from the Book of Life,