J. DOUGLAS: A Sunday Morning at the Hut-Breamore

Thank God for the blue of summer skies,

And the azure wings of butterflies,

But most of all I thank to-day

For the blue of Bluebell woods in May.

They breathed up blue in the morning haze,

And the little birds sang a song of praise,

And told the Angels to praise God too

For clothing bluebells all in blue.

And far away in the Valley, I wist.

The bells are ringing to Eucharist:

God’s praises sound as clear and true

From Sabbath bells and bells of blue.

E’en in the lands of war and strife

God clothes the fields in fresh spring life,

And lives laid down in the cause of right

Spring up afresh in the fields of Light.

And down the sweeps of the azure sky

With rush of wings the Angels fly,

To raise the boys from the crimson sod,

And carry them swift to the heart of God.

Chanting sweetly the song of Heaven,

That death is past and new life given!

” Jubilate Deo !” those Victors sing,

” This is not death ! But eternal spring !”

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