Classic and Contemporary Poetry
A PASTORAL, by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN Poet Analysis Poet's Biography First Line: When the young year is sweetest, when the year Last Line: That might be hushed, unless you come ere long. Alternate Author Name(s): Blunden, Edmund Subject(s): England; Landscape; English | ||||||||
WHEN the young year is sweetest, when the year Is a symphony of sounds and scents and seeings That gather in the sky in shining clouds, And souls fly nearer their glad soul a moment -- Then Collins Meadow is the place to walk. To know it afar, it's worthy with those colours That old and saintly patiences inbloomed On sacred leaves of missals: all around The land's a sweet book, close is a sweet page, But this the initial and the crowned A. Then, poet, take your subtlest instrument, That the grace and marvel may repeated flow Beyond their range, since hills and woods immure, To them who never came here. The dead artist Hath left men vases where awhile is held A rosy odour, and an ecstasy: But you, with words of sooner perished clay, To catch and cup but a millionth drop of the joy That in this meadow runs, swims, slides, basks, rings -- Call to the ghosts of Ida, for they knew. Meantime the lonely soul will hover here In bright transcendence and in humble prayer Till one companion come through dewy leaves. The young year being so rosy now, Sound, scent and seeing one posy now, The sunny symphony of pastoral reeds Hovering and sparkling as the west wind leads With such a touch on harps of weeds As makes each one Apollo's bough -- The young year gleaming white and blue Walks in the sun, and will not you? In these green freedoms there's no sense Of what the tithe-map feigns a fence -- This meadow is the one we find On clumsier surveys close confined, But to my mind it none the less Answers the kin sky's boundlessness: In this savannah Number's span Is nothing; past his topmost plan Would spring the star-flowers, and a linnet Hold her house, and five young in it. Come you will: here all is well -- The far church clock with judging bell Is but one ban: One low note falls, One sad and solitary trumpet calls, One dull drum blackens on the rich blue firmament of song: But the west wind he will wean us away, He again on his ravishing pipes does play, And up among the living air Makes holiday and magic there -- That might be hushed, unless you come ere long. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...NINETEEN FORTY by NORMAN DUBIE GHOSTS IN ENGLAND by ROBINSON JEFFERS STAYING UP FOR ENGLAND by LIAM RECTOR STONE AND FLOWER by KENNETH REXROTH THE HANGED MAN by KENNETH REXROTH ENGLISH TRAIN COMPARTMENT by JOHN UPDIKE ALMSWOMEN by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN |
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