"THIS young man comes from your way, Tom." At this The old thin silent fellow on the sack, Who turned some pages with a face of lead, Clapt eyes on me. His quivering jaw released Words sere and rambling as November leaves. "You come from my way .... Ah, I used to know Sturmere, New England, Stoke, the Valley Arms. 'Tis forty years ago. 'Tis changed, no doubt. Yes, I knew all them places." Here the master Of the old-clothes shop pointed me again, "He went a-cricketin' out to Stoke Whit-Monday. "Cricketin'? Ah, there warn't no cricket then, Except the boys might take a bat at nights. The men ne'er played no cricket nor no quoits Nor football. Tenpins -- that was all there was." And pausing, he gave ear to something afar And suddenly heard what made his words ring out. "But we had music in the churches then, The clar'net on a Sunday used to play In Sturmere church -- and as the sayen is, The clar'net used to sound like HEAVEN ON EARTH." O Love, your anthem reached the dealer's den, The rags and rubbish thence all-glorious shone. And he again: "There's no such music now, There's nothen now for nobody, only sorrow." | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...BATTLE OF BRITAIN by CECIL DAY LEWIS THE GAME OF CHESS by EZRA POUND THE OLD SANTA FE TRAIL by RICHARD EUGENE BURTON MACFLECKNOE; OR, A SATIRE UPON THE TRUE-BLUE-PROTESTANT POET by JOHN DRYDEN OUR LADY'S LULLABY by RICHARD ROWLANDS THE VANISHERS by JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER |