ROOKS in black constellation slowly wheeling Over this pale sweet sky, and church-bells pealing Our homely pilgrims to the fount of healing; The cypresses that swartly gather nigh, The grey conventicle that claims the sky Where the white rugged road climbs patient by; The day and hour, the obedience of good people To the commandment singing from the steeple, All speak a calm sea and a gentle ripple. I bless my chance that finds me this deep leisure, The voice of Sabbath with its lulling measure, I bless this England for such serious pleasure. And gravely as I go I reach that grove Where once the Cavalier and Roundhead strove, And think, this peace rewards their rival love: I see them now at truce eternal lying, With no hoarse trumpet summoning, none replying -- Only in sweet content for England vying. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...RHAPSODY ON A WINDY NIGHT by THOMAS STEARNS ELIOT THE ARTILLERYMAN'S VISION by WALT WHITMAN THE BUBBLE by WILLIAM ALLINGHAM AT PARTING by JOHANNA AMBROSIUS A NIGHT IN JUNE by ALFRED AUSTIN THE JAY WALKER by BERTON BRALEY THE LEGEND OF GOOD WOMEN: 6. THE LEGEND OF ADRIADNE by GEOFFREY CHAUCER |