Poems (Mary Coleridge)/Poem 12

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XII "EVERY MAN FOR HIS OWN HAND"
I may not call what many call divine,
And yet my faith is faith in its degree;
I worship at a dim and lonely shrine
    On bended knee.

The secret grace of faith's celestial part
I hoard up safely for mine own self's own;
Within the hidden chambers of the heart
    I love alone.

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