While on my childish heart a reverie fell.
Now I return again, I stop and listen;
But hear no more.…
And this old building—it is thou, poor church,
Hiding thy gray stones ’neath the pine-tree’s shade.
The summit of thy cross I hailed from far,
In sunshine gleaming, rising o’er the wood.
Here, I remember, happy hours I spent,
Which made me dream of heavenly abodes;
I gazed, admiring, at the cherubim,