ENGLAND
Reading edition
No lovelier hills than thine have laid My tired thoughts to rest: No peace of lovelier valleys made Like peace within my breast.
Thine are the woods whereto my soul, Out of the noontide beam, Flees for a refuge green and cool And tranquil as a dream.
Thy breaking seas like trumpets peal; Thy clouds—how oft have I Watched their bright towers of silence steal Into infinity!
My heart within me faults to roam In thought even far from thee: Thine be the grave whereto I come, And thine my darkness be.