AT GRAFTON

By John Drinkwater

God laughed when he made Grafton

That’ s under Bredon Hill,

A jewel in a jewelled plain.

The seasons work their will

On golden thatch and crumbling stone,

And every soft-lipped breeze

Makes music for the Grafton men

In comfortable trees.

God’ s beauty over Grafton

Stole into roof and wall,

And hallowed every pavèd path

And every lowly stall,

And to a woven wonder

Conspired with one accord

The labour of the servant,

The labour of the Lord.

And momently to Grafton

Comes in from vale and wold

The sound of sheep unshepherded,

The sound of sheep in fold,

And, blown along the bases

Of lands that set their wide

Frank brows to God, comes chanting

The breath of Bristol tide.