It Was Long Ago by Eleanor Farjeon

It Was Long Ago
by Eleanor Farjeon


I'll tell you, shall I, something I remember?
Something that still means a great deal to me.
It was long ago.

A dusty road in summer I remember,
A mountain, and an old house, and a tree
That stood, you know,

Behind the house. An old woman I remember
In a red shawl with a grey cat on her knee
Humming under a tree.

She seemed the oldest thing I can remember.
But then perhaps I was not more than three.
It was long ago.

I dragged on the dusty road, and I remember
How the old woman looked over the fence at me
And seemed to know

How it felt to be three, and called out, I remember
"Do you like bilberries and cream for tea?"
I went under the tree.

And while she hummed, and the cat purred, I remember
How she filled a saucer with berries and cream for me
So long ago.

Such berries and such cream as I remember
I never had seen before, and never see
Today, you know.

And that is almost all I can remember,
The house, the mountain, the gray cat on her knee,
Her red shawl, and the tree,

And the taste of the berries, the feel of the sun I remember,
And the smell of everything that used to be
So long ago,

Till the heat on the road outside again I remember
And how the long dusty road seemed to have for me
No end, you know.

That is the farthest thing I can remember.
It won't mean much to you. It does to me.
Then I grew up, you see.

A Boy in Church by Robert Graves

A Boy in Church

by Robert Graves

‘Gabble-gabble, . . . brethren, . . . gabble-gabble!’

    My window frames forest and heather.

I hardly hear the tuneful babble,

    Not knowing nor much caring whether

The text is praise or exhortation,

Prayer or thanksgiving, or damnation.

 

Outside it blows wetter and wetter,

    The tossing trees never stay still.

I shift my elbows to catch better

    The full round sweep of heathered hill.

The tortured copse bends to and fro

In silence like a shadow-show.

 

The parson’s voice runs like a river

    Over smooth rocks, I like this church:

The pews are staid, they never shiver,

    They never bend or sway or lurch.

‘Prayer,’ says the kind voice, ‘is a chain

That draws down Grace from Heaven again.’

 

I add the hymns up, over and over,

    Until there’s not the least mistake.

Seven-seventy-one. (Look! there’s a plover!

    It’s gone!) Who’s that Saint by the lake?

The red light from his mantle passes

Across the broad memorial brasses.

 

It’s pleasant here for dreams and thinking,

    Lolling and letting reason nod,

With ugly serious people linking

    Sad prayers to a forgiving God . . . .

But a dumb blast sets the trees swaying

With furious zeal like madmen praying.

This poem reminded me of growing up and looking out the big church windows at the trees.   listening to the minister and the singing in the backround. A link to read more about this poet is here. http://www.poetryfoundation.org/bio/robert-graves