Sonnets IX: To the Author of 'The Rectory of Valehead'

There is a sweet well-spring of purity
In the holy heart, whereout unceasing flow
Its living waters, freshening as they go
The weary deserts of humanity:
There is a spirit in words, which doth express
Celestial converse and divine employ;
A surface of unbroken gentleness,
With an under-current of deep-running joy.
I closed thy holy book this Sabbath-morn;
And it hath spread like billow-calming oil
Upon my spirit, in the loud turmoil
Of ever-striving passions tempest-worn; —
Thy Master's peace be thine, even as thou hast
Over this soul a holy quiet cast.