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17
MALVERN.
At Malvern under the greenest hill
The Spirit of Place in the evening still
Whispers and passes and what she saith
The wind knoweth, the water knoweth.
The Spirit of Place in the evening still
Whispers and passes and what she saith
The wind knoweth, the water knoweth.
There are drifts of bluest blue in the grass,
The green grass where the white feet pass.
It is still and holy; the bean-field blows,
The apple-tree's the ghost of a rose.
The green grass where the white feet pass.
It is still and holy; the bean-field blows,
The apple-tree's the ghost of a rose.
The hour is gentle, gentle the night;
The night-jar whirrs from the wooded height;
The Spirit of Place, she goeth in white;
Like the feet of the wind is her soundless flight.
The night-jar whirrs from the wooded height;
The Spirit of Place, she goeth in white;
Like the feet of the wind is her soundless flight.
Her tale is gentle, the Spirit of Place.
There is neither terror nor bitterness.
Was there War? Long since it was turned to Peace;
Her voice is low as the hum of bees.
There is neither terror nor bitterness.
Was there War? Long since it was turned to Peace;
Her voice is low as the hum of bees.
18
They were born, they played, they were lass and lad;
They loved like the birds, they built and were glad.
They saw their children; grew old and died:
Under the grasses lie side by side.
They loved like the birds, they built and were glad.
They saw their children; grew old and died:
Under the grasses lie side by side.
They ploughed, they sowed, they reaped. If they sinned
They were sorry; their Father in heaven was kind.
His Mother, the Saints; they had friends enough
To help poor Everyman's burden off.
They were sorry; their Father in heaven was kind.
His Mother, the Saints; they had friends enough
To help poor Everyman's burden off.
Softly she's counting as on her beads
The white heads and the golden heads
Laid low in this garden under the hill,
Till the Angel blows on his trumpet shrill.
The white heads and the golden heads
Laid low in this garden under the hill,
Till the Angel blows on his trumpet shrill.
Then they shall wake, they shall rise and go,
They shall run and leap—they are white as snow.
The Spirit of Place she has tales to tell
Of the holy house and the sacring-bell.
They shall run and leap—they are white as snow.
The Spirit of Place she has tales to tell
Of the holy house and the sacring-bell.
In the dim fields 'neath the greenest hill,
The Spirit of Place she is never still.
Her eyes are gentle, her speech sayeth:
All passes! All passes! God stayeth!
The Spirit of Place she is never still.
Her eyes are gentle, her speech sayeth:
All passes! All passes! God stayeth!
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