The Manor Farm

 THE rock-like mud unfroze a little, and rills 
Ran and sparkled down each side of the road 
Under the catkins wagging in the hedge.
 
But earth would have her sleep out, spite of the sun; 
Nor did I value that thin gliding beam 
More than a pretty February thing 
Till I came down to the old manor farm, 
And church and yew-tree opposite, in age 
Its equals and in size.
 The church and yew 
And farmhouse slept in a Sunday silentness.
 
The air raised not a straw.
 The steep farm roof, 
With tiles duskily glowing, entertained 
The mid-day sun; and up and down the roof 
White pigeons nestled.
 There was no sound but one.
 
Three cart horses were looking over a gate 
Drowsily through their forelocks, swishing their tails 
Against a fly, a solitary fly.
 
The winter's cheek flushed as if he had drained 
Spring, summer, and autumn at a draught 
And smiled quietly.
 But 'twas not winter-- 
Rather a season of bliss unchangeable, 
Awakened from farm and church where it had lain 
Safe under tile and latch for ages since 
This England, Old already, was called Merry.

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