John Drinkwater

Written in Winterborne Came Church

(WILLIAM BARNES. 1801-1886)

To Mrs. Thomas Hardy
 
I do not use to listen well
 
At sermon time,
I 'Id rather hear the plainest rhyme
 
Than tales the parsons tell;
 
The homespun of experience
 
They will not wear,
But walk a transcendental air
 
In dusty rags of sense.
 
But humbly in your little church
 
Alone I watch;
Old rector, lift again the latch,
 
Here is a heart to search.
 
Come, with a simple word and wise
 
Quicken my brain,
And while upon the painted pane
 
The painted butterflies
 
Beat in the early April beams,
 
You shall instruct
My spirit in the knowledge plucked
 
From your still Dorset dreams.
169
 
 
 
POEMS,
 
Your word shall strive with no obscure
 
Debated text,
Your vision being unpcrplcxed,
 
Your loving purpose pure.
 
I know you’ll speak of April flowers,
 
Or lambs in pen,
Or happy-hearted maids and men
 
Weaving their April hours.
 
Or rising to your thought will come,
 
For lessoning,
Those lovers of an older spring,
 
That now in tombs are dumb.
 
And brooding in your theme shall be,
 
Half said, half heard,
The presage of a poet’s word
 
To mock mortality.
 
The years are on your grave the while,
 
And yet, almost,
I think to see your surpliced ghost
 
Stand hesitant in the aisle,
 
Find me sole congregation there,
 
Assess my mood,
Know mine a kindred solitude,
 
And climb the pulpit-stair.
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