Priest and poet Robert Stephen Hawker's poetry-writing den (above), built into a Cornwall hillside overlooking the Atlantic.
ARE THEY NOT ALL MINISTERING SPIRITS?
We see them not--we cannot hear
The music of their wing--
Yet know we that they sojourn near,
The Angels of the spring!
They glide along this lovely ground
When the first violet grows;
Their graceful hands have just unbound
The zone of yonder rose.
I gather it for thy dear breast,
From stain and shadow free:
That which an Angel's touch hath blest
Is meet, my love, for thee!
Robert Stephen Hawker
Hawker excommunicated his cat from the hideaway for Sunday-mousing. Well-done.
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