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And London Shops On Christmas Eve Are Strung With Silver Bells And Flowers As Hurrying Clerks The City Leave To Pigeon-haunted Classic Towers, And Marbled Clouds Go Scudding By The Many-steepled London Sky

Old Men Who Never Cheated, Never Doubted, Communicated Monthly, Sit And Stare At The New Suburb Stretched Beyond The Run-way Where A Young Man Lands Hatless From The Air.

Hymns Are The Poetry Of The People.

And I Think It Was The Outline Of That Church Tower At Belaugh Against The Sky Which Gave Me A Passion For Churches So That Every Church I've Past Since I've Wanted To Stop And Look In.

I Am Still Reeling With Delight At The Soaring Majesty Of Norfolk.