"Gabble-gabble,... brethren,... gabble-gabble!" My window frames forest and heather. I hardly hear the tuneful babble, Not knowing nor much caring whether The text is praise or exhortation, Prayer or thanksgiving, or damnation.
Outside it blows wetter and wetter, The tossing trees never stay still. I shift my elbows to catch better The full round sweep of heathered hill. The tortured copse bends to and fro In silence like a shadow-show.
The parson's voice runs like a river Over smooth rocks. I like this church: The pews are staid, they never shiver, They never bend or sway or lurch. "Prayer," says the kind voice, "is a chain That draws down Grace from Heaven again."
I add the hymns up, over and over, Until there's not the least mistake. Seven-seventy-one. (Look! there's a plover! It's gone!) Who's that Saint by the lake? The red light from his mantle passes Across the broad memorial brasses.
It's pleasant here for dreams and thinking, Lolling and letting reason nod, With ugly serious people linking Sad prayers to a forgiving God.... But a dumb blast sets the trees swaying With furious zeal like madmen praying.