The Catholic Parish of
Blessed John Henry Newman

 Covering most of East Leeds

In A Country Church

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To one kneeling down no word came,
Only the windís song, saddening the lips
Of the grave saints, rigid in glass;
Or the dry whisper of unseen wings,
Bats not angels, in the high roof
Was he balked by silence? He kneeled long,
And saw love in a dark crown
Of thorns blazing, and a winter tree
Golden with fruit of a manís body


R S Thomas



Published Fri 20th Apr 2012 13:28:00

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