A Rhyme

Against the sky of Clover’s Dale
a ruined steeple tall.
No rain, it seem, may strike the ground
Within its roofless walls.

No preacher dwell within its bounds.
No other kirks abide.
& in this town of Clovers fell
no images reside.

All smilingly the streets they stride,
bell’s-tower see they not.
No words do speak of God his Keep,
& time seems long forgot

Advertisements
Leave a comment

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: