64444: A Boy In Church

<p dir="ltr"> 'Gabble-gabble,...brethren,...gabble-gabble!'<br> My window frames forest and heather.<br> I hardly hear the tuneful babble,<br> Not knowing nor much caring whether<br> The text is praise or exhortation,<br> Prayer or thanksgiving, or damnation.<br> Outside it blows wetter and wetter,<br> The tossing trees never stay still.<br> I shift my elbows to catch better<br> The full round sweep of heathered hill.<br> The tortured copse bends to and fro<br> In silence like a shadow-show.<br> The parson's voice runs like a river<br> Over smooth rocks. I like this church:<br> The pews are staid, they never shiver,<br> They never bend or sway or lurch.<br> 'Prayer,' says the kind voice, 'is a chain<br> That draws down Grace from Heaven again.'<br> I add the hymns up, over and over,<br> Until there's not the least mistake.<br> Seven-seventy-one. (Look! there's a plover!<br> It's gone!) Who's that Saint by the lake?<br> The red light from his mantle passes<br> Across the broad memorial brasses.<br> It's pleasant here for dreams and thinking,<br> Lolling and letting reason nod,<br> With ugly serious people linking<br> Sad prayers to a forgiving God....<br> But a dumb blast sets the trees swaying<br> With furious zeal like madmen praying.</p>