Up at the church at the edge of the moor, Flat on the pathway that leads to the door, Worn by the tread of the mourning and poor, There is a face that is fit for God’s floor.

Up

How could a mason create in his brain Just such a cherub to sob in the rain? How could the pride of the dying but vain Want such a cherub to blow a refrain?

This one had ankles with which he could run— Is it a fact that a cherub has none? This one had love-locks that flashed in the sun, Yes, and his lips often pouted in fun.

Who was the angel that played on the street; Whose was the face I can’t soil with my feet? Nobody knows; but I hope I shall meet One such a cherub in front of God’s seat.

p. 14VIII LADY DAY NEAR BIGNOR

p. 14

VIII

South-Eastward where the waving line of hills Bears up the clouds that speed like passing boats, On one sweet spot which distant sunlight fills A sudden silver haze descends and floats.

South-Eastward

The trees below like lace veil glistening streams, The gorse puts on its tiny gloves of gold, The cattle move as though they fed in dreams, And timid lambs are bleating in the fold.

Though tangled bracken like an old man’s beard Blends autumn’s ruddy brown with winter’s grey, Soft blows the breeze that through the pines is heard, Green moss and yellow primrose deck the way.

The Roman villa level on the grass, With wrestling cupids on the floor within; The church where first a Norman priest said mass, The ivied chimneys of the Georgian inn:

p. 15These have their message. All things tell the change Of seasons, races, and of man’s estate: All bid us mark within how small a range There moves a story tragically great.

p. 15

The hills abide, and that mysterious Breath Which brooded on the slowly shaping earth, And came to-day like dew to Nazareth To fashion our Redeemer’s Virgin-birth.

p. 16IX A COTTAGE INSCRIPTION

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