Shy maids have haunts of still delight, br The lover glades he never tells; br And one is mine where mass the bright br And odoured chimes of foxglove-bells. br br A dewy, covert, silent place br Where surely long ago God walked br Close to His creature's blinded face, br And for his finer moulding talked. br br There hawthorn glows as if, white-hot, br God present, it were sacred found br To preach a creed too oft forgot-- br That all we tread is holy ground.