To see the white carnations bloom again, Is hushed and dreamy by long whitterings, The fount of sculpted birds too delicate, For any troubled hour: I have great comfort in the hall.
A poem for the road, Away from rainy Westland, Amidst the bold assertions of the sun, Between the blowing bouts of rain, Beside the verdant countryside again, Becoming deeper entrenched in vibrant reality, Culminating in great golden fields, Crossing by the grassy hills like sleeping giants, Creasing hills into their lumpy folds.
Roped in and held with care, Sharing laughs with your Church in service, We're here for You, You are truly our everything, And we seek to place You more in our sights, Till earthly things fall dull by the wayside, And we hear You clearly.