THE wheat crowds close, the land falls sharp, And shrubs of all sorts mark the scarp, Where birds are welcome, sweet or shrill, To share all secrets save man's will, And moths as dappled as the pard Or brown as Caribs pass the guard. Here's a place but rarely trod, And belongs to some old god. Deep adown we tell the stream By a whisper or a gleam; Willow leaves wrapt grey above Like the feathers of a dove, And such green thickets gathered round, The ripple might be underground. Thistles, most, jump from the marl, Baring teeth in sullen snarl. Perhaps when Magog was a child They grew in gardens, lilies wild; Injured here they nurse their grievance; Briars and nettles nod connivance. Beyond, the brook bedews the lane, The gravel groans beneath the wain; The peeping leveret pricks his ears, But to his sweetmeat soon repairs; So ancient is the solitude, So rarely is the fort reviewed, Here the saddest soul might come And for philosophy have room, And old gods well find messuage To sleep away a graceless age. And yet on this the church top stares, And some hallooing gargoyle glares, Even gardens lie a stone's throw hence With white clothes sunning on the fence, And hayricks rise by the Black Boy stable, The neighbours of a niche for fable. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...FROM FRANCE by ISAAC ROSENBERG BUCOLIC COMEDY: THE FOX; FOR ANN PEARN by EDITH SITWELL EARTH'S ANSWER, FR. SONGS OF EXPERIENCE by WILLIAM BLAKE THE GOLD-SEEKERS by HAMLIN GARLAND POSSESSED by RUTH FITCH BARTLETT BLUE BUTTERFLY by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN EPITAPH by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN |