A LITTLE grey church by the sea,
In a grey, lone little town I know,
Has windows, one, two, and three,
With each a saint and a verse.
Lush vines climb over the panes;
Saint Paul has leaves twined to his knee;
And more than the sea-winds whisper,
Within, to each prayer-lisper.

On the roof in a stole of moss
Is a belfry meek and mellow and wise,
Lifting above it a cross
And tongued with a priestly bell,
Grey paths that wind to the door
Are of shells from the sea's tide and toss,
And a coast-light, calm as a verger,
Greets, near, each seaward emerger.

Soothing to soul and heart
This grey, sad little sea-church is;
For it holds the sacred art
Of being simply itself.
And never can words impart
What calm beauty in that abides;
Or what ineffable leaven
Of grace, as if from Heaven.