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Edith Nesbit - The Better Part
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THERE`S a grey old church on a wind-swept hill 
    Where three bent yew trees cower, 
The gipsy roses grow there still, 
    And the thyme and Saint John`s gold flower, 
The pale blue violets that love the chalk 
    Cling light round the lichened stone, 
And starlings chatter and grey owls talk 
    In the belfry o` nights alone. 


It`s a thousand leagues and a thousand years 
    From the brick-built, gas-lit town 
To the little church where the wild thyme hears 
    The bees and the breeze of the down. 
The town is crowded and hard and rough; 
    Let those fight in its press who will-- 
But the little churchyard is quiet enough, 
    And there`s room in the churchyard still.
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