 | The Poems of John Clare |  |
113
BOSTON CHURCH (II)
Smiling in sunshine, as the storm frowns by,Whose dreadful rage seems to thy quiet thrall
As small birds' twitterings, that beneath thee fly.
Winds call aloud, and they may louder call,
For, deaf to danger's voice, sublime and grand
Thou tower'st in thy old majesty o'er all.
Tempests, that break the tall masts like a wand,
Howl their rage weary round thee; and no more
Impression make than summer winds that bow
The little trembling weeds upon thy wall.
Lightnings have blazed their centuries round thy brow,
And left no print-marks:—so in shadows hoar
Time decks and spares thee, till that doom is hurled
That sears the ocean dry and wrecks the world.
| The Poems of John Clare | |