The Old Church

Behind our new church, on the hill,

    The old church used to stand,

As grim and rough as an old-time saint,

Stained by age, but never by paint,

    With a willow on either hand.

A traveller, passing by that way,

    As he looked the edifice o'er,

With a sense not quite so devout as keen,

Is said to have murmered, "God's house I've seen,

    But never His barn before!"

William Byron Forbush

Index to poems in the collection by William Byron Forbush