ROOKS in black constellation slowly wheeling Over this pale sweet sky, and church-bells pealing Our homely pilgrims to the fount of healing; The cypresses that swartly gather nigh, The grey conventicle that claims the sky Where the white rugged road climbs patient by; The day and hour, the obedience of good people To the commandment singing from the steeple, All speak a calm sea and a gentle ripple. I bless my chance that finds me this deep leisure, The voice of Sabbath with its lulling measure, I bless this England for such serious pleasure. And gravely as I go I reach that grove Where once the Cavalier and Roundhead strove, And think, this peace rewards their rival love: I see them now at truce eternal lying, With no hoarse trumpet summoning, none replying -- Only in sweet content for England vying. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY: MRS. MERRITT by EDGAR LEE MASTERS LEEDLE YAWCOB STRAUSS by CHARLES FOLLEN ADAMS THE LITTLE GIRL FOUND, FR. SONGS OF EXPERIENCE by WILLIAM BLAKE THE GRAVE OF LOVE by THOMAS LOVE PEACOCK THE HANDSOME KNIGHT by MUHAMMAD AL-MU'TAMID II CRADLE SONG by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH ODE TO THE PAST by WILLIAM EDMONSTOUNE AYTOUN |