| Just now the lilac is in bloom, |
| All before my little room ; |
| And in my flower-beds, I think, |
| Smile the carnation and the pink ; |
| And down the borders, well I know, |
| The poppy and the pansy blow . . . |
| Oh ! there the chestnuts, summer
through, |
| Beside the river make for you |
| A tunnel of green gloom, and sleep |
| Deeply above ; and green and deep |
| The stream mysterious glides beneath, |
| Green as a dream and deep as death. |
| —Oh, damn ! I know it ! and I know |
| How the May fields all golden show, |
| And when the day is young and sweet, |
| Gild gloriously the bare feet |
| That run to bathe . . . |
Du lieber Gott !
|
| Here am I, sweating, sick, and hot, |
| And there the shadowed waters fresh |
| Lean up to embrace the naked flesh. |
| Temperanmentvoll German Jews |
| Drink beer around ;—and there
the dews |
| Are soft beneath a morn of gold. |
| Here tulips bloom as they are told ; |
| Unkempt about those hedges blows |
| An English unofficial rose ; |
| And there the unregulated sun |
| Slopes down to rest when day is done, |
| And wakes a vague unpunctual star, |
| A slippered Hesper ; and there are |
| Meads towards Haslingfield and Coton |
| Where das Betreten’s not
verboten. |
|
eϊθε γενοίμην
. . . .would
I were |
| In Grantchester, in Grantchester !— |
| Some, it may be, can get in touch |
| With Nature there, or Earth, or such. |
| And clever modern men have seen |
| A Faun a-peeping through the green, |
| And felt the Classics were not dead, |
| To glimpse a Naiad’s reedy head, |
| Or hear the Goat-foot piping low: . . . |
| But these are things I do not know. |
| I only know that you may lie |
| Day-long and watch the Cambridge sky, |
| And, flower-lulled in sleepy grass, |
| Hear the cool lapse of hours pass, |
| Until the centuries blend and blur |
| In Grantchester, in Grantchester . . . |
| Still in the dawnlit waters cool |
| His ghostly Lordship swims his pool, |
| And tries the strokes, essays the
tricks, |
| Long learnt on Hellespont, or Styx. |
| Dan Chaucer hears his river still |
| Chatter beneath a phantom mill. |
| Tennyson notes, with studious eye, |
| How Cambridge waters hurry by . . . |
| And in that garden, black and white, |
| Creep whispers through the grass all
night ; |
| And spectral dance, before the dawn, |
| A hundred Vicars down the lawn ; |
| Curates, long dust, will come and go |
| On lissom, clerical, printless toe ; |
| And oft between the boughs is seen |
| The sly shade of a Rural Dean . . . |
| Till, at a shiver in the skies, |
| Vanishing with Satanic cries, |
| The prim ecclesiastic rout |
| Leaves but a startled sleeper-out, |
| Grey heavens, the first bird’s drowsy
calls, |
The falling house that never falls.
|
| God ! I will pack, and take a train, |
| And get me to England once again ! |
| For England’s the one land, I know, |
| Where men with Splendid Hearts may go ; |
| And Cambridgeshire, of all England, |
| The shire for Men who Understand ; |
| And of that district I prefer |
| The lovely hamlet Grantchester. |
| For Cambridge people rarely smile, |
| Being urban, squat, and packed with
guile ; |
| And Royston men in the far South |
| Are black and fierce and strange of
mouth ; |
| At Over they fling oaths at one, |
| And worse than oaths at Trumpington, |
| And Ditton girls are mean and dirty, |
| And there’s none in Harston under
thirty, |
| And folks in Shelford and those parts
|
| Have twisted lips and twisted hearts. |
| And Barton men make Cockney rhymes, |
| And Coton’s full of nameless crimes, |
| And things are done you’d not believe |
| At Madingley, on Christmas Eve. |
| Strong men have run for miles and
miles, |
| When one from Cherry Hinton smiles ; |
| Strong men have blanched, and shot
their wives, |
| Rather than send them to St. Ives ; |
| Strong men have cried like babes,
bydam, |
| To hear what happened at Babraham. |
| But Grantchester ! ah, Grantchester ! |
| There’s peace and holy quiet there, |
| Great clouds along pacific skies, |
| And men and women with straight eyes, |
| Lithe children lovelier than a dream, |
| A bosky wood, a slumberous stream, |
| And little kindly winds that creep |
| Round twilight corners, half asleep. |
| In Grantchester their skins are white ; |
| They bathe by day, they bathe by night
; |
| The women there do all they ought ; |
| The men observe the Rules of Thought. |
| They love the Good ; they worship Truth
; |
| They laugh uproariously in youth ; |
| (And when they get to feeling old, |
They up and shoot themselves, I’m
told). . .
|
| Ah God ! to see the branches stir |
| Across the moon at Grantchester ! |
| To smell the thrilling-sweet and rotten |
| Unforgettable, unforgotten |
| River-smell, and hear the breeze |
| Sobbing in the little trees. |
| Say, do the elm-clumps greatly stand |
| Still guardians of that holy land ? |
| The chestnuts shade, in reverend dream, |
| The yet unacademic stream ? |
| Is dawn a secret shy and cold |
| Anadyomene, silver-gold ? |
| And sunset still a golden sea |
| From Haslingfield to Madingley ? |
| And after, ere the night is born, |
| Do hares come out about the corn ? |
| Oh, is the water sweet and cool, |
| Gentle and brown, above the pool ? |
| And laughs the immortal river still |
| Under the mill, under the mill ? |
| Say, is there Beauty yet to find ? |
| And Certainty ? and Quiet kind ? |
| Deep meadows yet, for to forget |
| The lies, and truths, and pain ? . . .
oh ! yet |
| Stands the Church clock at ten to three
? |
And is there honey still for tea ?
|
| Rupert
Brooke |
Classic Poems |
