A Parsonage In Oxfordshire

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  Where  holy ground begins, unhallowed ends,
  Is marked by no distinguishable line;
  The turf unites, the pathways intertwine;
  And, wheresoe'er the stealing footstep tends,
  Garden, and that domain where kindred, friends,
  And neighbours rest together, here confound
  Their several features, mingled like the sound
  Of many waters, or as evening blends
  With shady night. Soft airs, from shrub and flower,
  Waft fragrant greetings to each silent grave; 
  And while those lofty poplars gently wave
  Their tops, between them comes and goes a sky
  Bright as the glimpses of eternity,
  To saints accorded in their mortal hour.

© William Wordsworth