HERE is the perfume of the leaves, the incense of the pines–
The magic scent that hath been pent
Within the tangled vines:
No censer filled with spices rare
E'er swung such sweetness on the air.

And all the golden gloom of it holdeth no haunting fear
For it is blessed, and giveth rest
To those who enter here–
Here in the evening–who can know
But God Himself walks to and fro!

And music past all mastering within the chancel rings;
None could desire a sweeter choir
Than this–that soars and sings,
Till far the scented shadows creep–
And quiet darkness bringeth sleep.