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BIRCHINGTON CHURHYARD.
As rapid Waters that leap
To their fall.
To their fall.
As Music, as Colour, as Shape,
Keys of rapture and pain
Turning in vain
In a lock which turns not again,
While breaths and moments escape.
Keys of rapture and pain
Turning in vain
In a lock which turns not again,
While breaths and moments escape.
As Spring, all bloom and desire;
As Summer, all gift and fire;
As Autumn, a dying glow;
As Winter, with nought to show:
As Summer, all gift and fire;
As Autumn, a dying glow;
As Winter, with nought to show:
Winter which lays its dead all out of sight,
All clothed in white,
All waiting for the long-awaited light.
All clothed in white,
All waiting for the long-awaited light.
BIRCHINGTON CHURCHYARD.
A LOWLY hill which overlooks a flat,
Half sea, half country side;
A flat-shored sea of low-voiced creeping tide
Over a chalky weedy mat.
Half sea, half country side;
A flat-shored sea of low-voiced creeping tide
Over a chalky weedy mat.
A hill of hillocks, flowery and kept green
Round Crosses raised for hope,
With many-tinted sunsets where the slope
Faces the lingering western sheen.
Round Crosses raised for hope,
With many-tinted sunsets where the slope
Faces the lingering western sheen.
