Summer Mass

In the cloisters of the grass,
Lit by buttercups and daisies,
Celebrants of summer mass,
Little creatures sing their praises.
From a myriad throbbing throats
Rises up their song of Love,
Like a mist of golden motes,
To the Golden Throne above.
And the good Lord, bending nigh,
Quite forgets his house of stone
Where the frightened sinners cry,
And the frowning priests intone,
And the saints (if saints they be)
Smile and smile in effigy.