The Manor Farm
THE rock-like mud unfroze a little and rillsRan and sparkled down each side of the roadUnder the catkins wagging in the hedge.But earth would have her sleep out, spite of the sun;Nor did I value that thin gilding beamMore than a pretty February thingTill I came down to the old Manor Farm,And church and yew-tree opposite, in ageIts equals and in size. The church and yewAnd farmhouse slept in a Sunday silentness.The air raised not a straw. The steep farm roof,With tiles duskily glowing, entertainedThe mid-day sun; and up and down the roofWhite pigeons nestled. There was no sound but one.Three cart-horses were looking over a gateDrowsily through their forelocks, swishing their tailsAgainst a fly, a solitary fly.
The Winter's cheek flushed as if he had drainedSpring, Summer, and Autumn at a draughtAnd smiled quietly. But 'twas not Winter--Rather a season of bliss unchangeableAwakened from farm and church where it had lainSafe under tile and thatch for ages sinceThis England, Old already, was called Merry.
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