Sunday In Liguria Poem by Radclyffe Hall

Sunday In Liguria



This is the Sabbath day, the day of rest,
That breathes so gently in this quiet place,
With such insistent peace that for a space
The silver olives on the mountain's crest
Forget to whisper, folded in the grace
Of lengthening shadows gathered from the noon.
The clouds are golden, yet a placid moon
Slips out among them, calm and pale of face.

O soul of mine, breathe in this holy thing
That steeps the hills down to the dreaming sea ;
This endless prayer, this silent ecstacy,
That like a great white bird on sunlit wing
Hovers above the world ; 'tis given thee
To merge thyself in this harmonious whole.
And be content, seeking no higher goal ;
The earth is God's, to-day eternity !

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Radclyffe Hall

Radclyffe Hall

Bournemouth, Hampshire
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