William Wordsworth (1770–1850)

WHERE holy ground begins, unhallowed ends,

Is marked by no distinguishable line;

The turf unites, the pathways intertwine;

And, wheresoe’er the stealing footstep tends,

Garden, and that domain where kindred, friends,

And neighbors rest together, here confound

Their several features, mingled like the sound

Of many waters, or as evening blends

With shady night. Soft airs from shrub and flower

Waft fragrant greetings to each silent grave;

And while those lofty poplars gently wave

Their tops, between them comes and goes a sky

Bright as the glimpses of eternity

To saints accorded in their mortal hour.