WRITTEN IN WINTERBORNE CAME CHURCH

I do not use to listen well

At sermon time,

I’ ld rather hear the plainest rhyme

Than tales the parsons tell;

The homespun of experience

They will not wear,

But walk a transcendental air

In dusty rags of sense.

But humbly in your little church

Alone I watch;

Old rector, lift again the latch,

Here is a heart to search.

Come, with a simple word and wise

Quicken my brain,

And while upon the painted pane

The painted butterflies

Beat in the early April beams,

You shall instruct

My spirit in the knowledge plucked

From your still Dorset dreams.

Your word shall strive with no obscure

Debated text,

Your vision being unperplexed,

Your loving purpose pure.

I know you’ ll speak of April flowers,

Or lambs in pen,

Or happy-hearted maids and men

Weaving their April hours.

Or rising to your thought will come,

For lessoning,

Those lovers of an older spring,

That now in tombs are dumb.

And brooding in your theme shall be,

Half said, half heard,

The presage of a poet’ s word

To mock mortality.

The years are on your grave the while,

And yet, almost,

I think to see your surpliced ghost

Stand hesitant in the aisle,

Find me sole congregation there,

Assess my mood,

Know mine a kindred solitude,

And climb the pulpit-stair.