Unto my childhood’s church I’ll go
And bow my head to that low door
I passed through standing long ago.
I’ll sit in the accustomed place
And make, whilst all the unlearned stare
A mournful atheistic face
At their vain noise of unheard prayer.
Then whilst they hymn the heavenly birth
And angel-voices from the skies,
My thoughts shall go where Weimar’s earth