Poetry is honey for the soul
Today is Sunday and I have chosen the poem of the day.
It was mentioned once in a blog,
I looked for it and found it.
It is, for me, as a foreigner, something very English,
not British, English.
Something I would find with Anthony Trollope, with John Donne,
with John Keats, with Mrs Gaskell, with Barbara Pym.
Something Victorian and Edwardian,
a nostalgia for a past Empire today.
But was it ever idyllic and pastoral,
or is it a nostalgia for something dreamt that never was?
We have the same “faux souvenirs” in France…
UPON ECKINGTON BRIDGE, RIVER AVON
by: A.T. Quiller-Couch
PASTORAL heart of England! like a psalm
Of green days telling with a quiet beat–
O wave into the sunset flowing calm!
O tirèd lark descending on the wheat!
Lies it all peace beyond the western fold
Where now the lingering shepherd sees his star
Rise upon Malvern? Paints an Age of Gold
Yon cloud with prophecies of linkèd ease–
Lulling this Land, with hills drawn up like knees,
To drowse beside her implements of war?
Man shall outlast his battles. They have swept
Avon from Naseby Field to Savern Ham;
And Evesham’s dedicated stones have stepp’d
Down to the dust with Montfort’s oriflamme.
Nor the red tear nor the reflected tower
Abides; but yet these elegant grooves remain,
Worn in the sandstone parapet hour by hour
By labouring bargemen where they shifted ropes;
E’en so shall men turn back from violent hopes
To Adam’s cheer, and toil with spade again.
Ay, and his mother Nature, to whose lap
Like a repentant child at length he hies,
Nor in the whirlwind or the thunder-clap
Proclaims her more tremendous mysteries:
But when in winter’s grave, bereft of light,
With still, small voice divinelier whispering
–Lifting the green head of the aconite,
Feeding with sap of hope the hazel-shoot–
She feels God’s finger active at the root,
Turns in her sleep, and murmurs of the Spring.