The Cloisters: Foreign Breviaries

Dear Church, our island's sacred sojourner,
A richer dress thy Southern sisters own,
And some would deem too bright their flowing zone
For sacred walls. I love thee, nor would stir
Thy simple note, severe in character,
By use made lovelier, for the lofty tone
Of hymn, response, and touching antiphone,
Lest we lose homelier truth. The chorister
That sings the summer nights, so soft and strong,
To music modulating his sweet throat,
Labours with richness of his varied note,
Yet lifts not unto Heaven a holier song,
Than our home bird that, on some leafless thorn,
Hymns his plain chaunt each wintry eve and morn.