Эдвард Роулэнд Силл (Edward Rowland Sill)

Sunday

NOT a dread cavern, hoar with damp and mould,
Where I must creep, and in the dark and cold,
Offer some awful incense at a shrine
That hath no more divine
Than that 't is, far from life, and stern, and old;

But a bright hill-top in the breezy air,
Full of the morning freshness high and clear,
Where I may climb and drink the pure, new day,
And see where winds away
The path that God would send me, shining fair.

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