The Manor Farm
Edward Thomas 1878 (London Borough of Lambeth) – 1917 (Pas-de-Calais)
THE rock-like mud unfroze a little, and rills
Ran and sparkled down each side of the road
Under the catkins wagging in the hedge.
But earth would have her sleep out, spite of the sun;
Nor did I value that thin gliding beam
More than a pretty February thing
Till I came down to the old manor farm,
And church and yew-tree opposite, in age
Its equals and in size. The church and yew
And farmhouse slept in a Sunday silentness.
The air raised not a straw. The steep farm roof,
With tiles duskily glowing, entertained
The mid-day sun; and up and down the roof
White pigeons nestled. There was no sound but one.
Three cart horses were looking over a gate
Drowsily through their forelocks, swishing their tails
Against a fly, a solitary fly.
The winter's cheek flushed as if he had drained
Spring, summer, and autumn at a draught
And smiled quietly. But 'twas not winter--
Rather a season of bliss unchangeable,
Awakened from farm and church where it had lain
Safe under tile and latch for ages since
This England, Old already, was called Merry.
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Submitted on May 13, 2011
Modified on April 15, 2023
- 57 sec read
- 136 Views
Quick analysis:
Scheme | ABCDEFGHIAJKJDLAMKNOMPAQ |
---|---|
Closest metre | Iambic pentameter |
Characters | 1,047 |
Words | 190 |
Stanzas | 1 |
Stanza Lengths | 24 |
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"The Manor Farm" Poetry.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2024. Web. 19 May 2024. <https://www.poetry.com/poem/9898/the-manor-farm>.
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