Saturday, February 9, 2019

Thoughts Of Home

The Manor Farm
The rock-like mud unfroze a little, and rills
Ran and sparkled down each side of the road
Under the catkins wagging in the hedge.
But earth would have her sleep out, spite of the sun;
Nor did I value that thin glilding beam
More than a pretty February thing
Till I came down to the old Manor Farm,
And church and yew-tree opposite, in age
Its equals and in size. The church and yew
And farmhouse slept in a Sunday silentness.
The air raised not a straw. The steep farm roof,
With tiles duskily glowing, entertained
The mid-day sun; and up and down the roof
White pigeons nestled. There was no sound but one.
Three cart-horses were looking over a gate
Drowsily through their forelocks, swishing their tails
Against a fly, a solitary fly.
The Winter's cheek flushed as if he had drained
Spring, Summer, and Autumn at a draught
And smiled quietly. But 'twas not Winter—
Rather a season of bliss unchangeable
Awakened from farm and church where it had lain
Safe under tile and thatch for ages since
This England, Old already, was called Merry.

Edward Thomas 1878


Kathy said...

Such a pretty picture and passage. I can hardly wait until our world looks like that.

DJan said...

Just lovely, as always. :-)

Donna OShaughnessy said...

I'm currently taking an on-line poetry class with Kevin Higgins from Galway Ireland and worked on poetry analysis and critiques all day. Told myself I needed a break so went-a-blog hopping and found this treasure. Guess the Poetry Gods aren't done with me yet. The imagery was fantastic and the language so rich. Those past poets were the real deal. Thanks so much for posting it.

Edna B said...

What a lovely photo. It makes me want to be there, wandering the grounds and enjoying all of nature's beauty. You have a wonderful day, hugs, Edna B.