Songs from a Northern Garden

by Bliss Carman


 

ST. BARTHOLOMEW'S ON THE HILL

"Bartholomew with his cold dew."


 

Bartholomew, my brother, 
I like your roomy church; 
I like your way of leaving 
No sinners in the lurch.

I wish the world were wealthy

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In ministers like you, 
When at the lovely August 
You give the blessed dew.

I love your rambling Abbey, 
So long ago begun,

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Whose choirs are in the tree-tops, 
Whose censer is the sun.

Its windows are the morning; 
Its rafters are the stars; 
The fog-banks float like incense 

15

Up from its purple floors.

And where the ruddy apples 
Make lamps in the green gloom, 
The flowers in congregation 
Are never pressed for room;

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