'Gabble-gabble . . . brethren . . . gabble-gabble!' <br />My window glimpses larch 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 of 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 silenece 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 />Prayer-chains for 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/the-boy-in-church/
