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