In the deep, deep dingle south of Llangwyth's Pass,

While it was neither quite bright nor dark,

I heard a new and wonderful High Mass.

The Chief Priest was the nightingale: the lark

And thrush assisted him: and some small bird

(I do not weet his name) acted as Clerk.

My sprit was lapped in ecstasy: each word,

Word after word, thrilled through me like the deep

Rich music of a dream: not wholly asleep

Nor all awake was I, but, as it were,

Tranced somewhere between one state and the other.

All heavy thoughts that through the long day smother

Man's heart and soul with weariness and care

Were gone, and in their place reigned pure delight.

The nightingale, sent from afar and bright

And by my golden sister, prophesied

Of Blessed days to come, in a sweet voice:

And the small bird, responding, sang 'Rejoice, rejoice!'

I heard his little bill tinkle and jingle

With a clear silver sound that filled the dingle,

Heaven is a state wherein bliss and devotion mingle,

And such was mine this morn: I could have died