Classic and Contemporary Poetry
PRIDE OF THE VILLAGE, by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN Poet Analysis Poet's Biography First Line: A new grave meets the hastiest passer's eye Last Line: What a low hillock by your path may mean. Alternate Author Name(s): Blunden, Edmund Subject(s): England; Graves; Landscape; Villages; English; Tombs; Tombstones | ||||||||
A NEW grave meets the hastiest passer's eye, It's reared so high, it lacks not some white wreath; Old ones are not so noticed; low they lie And lower till the equal grass forgets The bones beneath. His now, a modest hillock it must be, The wooden cross scarce tells such as pass by The painted name; beneath the chestnut tree Sleep centuries of such glories and regrets. But I can tell you, boys who that way run With bat and ball down to the calm smooth leas, Your village story's somewhere bright with one To whom all looked with an approving joy In hours like these. Cricket to us, like you, was more than play, It was a worship in the summer sun, And when Tom Fletcher in the month of May Went to the field, the feet of many a boy Scarce pressed the buttercups; then we stood there Rapt, as he took the bat and lit day's close, Gliding and glancing, guiding fine or square The subtlest bowls, and smoothing, as wave-wise Rough-hurled they rose, With a sweet sureness; his especial ease Did what huge sinews could not; to a hair His grey eye measured, and from the far trees Old watchers lobbed the ball with merry cries. And when the whitened creases marked the match, Though shaking hands and pipes gone out revealed The hour's impress and burden, and the catch Or stumps askew meant it was Tom's turn next, He walked afield Modest, and small, and seldom failed to raise Our score and spirits, great delight to watch; And where old souls broke chuckling forth in praise Round the ale booth, Tom's cricket was the text. Summers slipt out of sight; next summer -- hush! The winter came between, and Tom was ill, And worse, and with the spring's sweet rosy flush, His face was flushed with perilous rose; he stayed Indoors, and still We hoped; but elders said, "Tom's going home." The brake took cricketers by inn and bush, But Tom not there! What team could leave out Tom? He took his last short walk, a trembling shade. And "short and sweet," he said, for his tombstone Would be the word; but paint and wood decay, And since he died the wind of war has blown His old companions far beyond the green Where many a day He made his poems out of bat and ball. Some few may yet be left who all alone Can tell you, boys who run at cricket's call, What a low hillock by your path may mean. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE SURVIVOR AMONG GRAVES by RANDALL JARRELL SUBJECTED EARTH by ROBINSON JEFFERS THE GRAVE OF MRS. HEMANS by CECIL FRANCES ALEXANDER THOSE GRAVES IN ROME by LARRY LEVIS NOT TO BE DWELLED ON by HEATHER MCHUGH ONE LAST DRAW OF THE PIPE by PAUL MULDOON ETRUSCAN TOMB by JOHN FREDERICK NIMS ENDING WITH A LINE FROM LEAR by MARVIN BELL ALMSWOMEN by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN |
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