Rupert
Brooke.
Day long and
watch
the Cambridge
sky,
And,
flower -lulled
in
sleepy
grass ,
Hear
the
cool lapse
of hours
pass ,
Until
the centuries
blend
and blur
In Grantchester , in Grantchester . . . .
Still
in
the dawnlit
waters
cool
His ghostly
Lordship
swims his pool,
And
tries
the
strokes , essays
the
tricks,
Long
learnt
on Hellespont, or
Styx ;
Dan
Chaucer hears his
river
still
Chatter
beneath
a
phantom
mill ;
Tennyson
notes , with
studious
eye,
How
Cambridge waters hurry by . . .
And
in
that
garden , black
and
white ,
Creep whispers
through
the grass
all
night
;
And spectral dance
,
before
the
dawn
,
A
hundred
Vicars
down
the
lawn
;
Curates
,
long dust
,
will come and
go,
On
lissom
,
clerical
,
printless toe
;
And oft betwixt
the boughs
is
seen
The
sly
shade
of
a
Rural
Dean
.
.
.
Till
,
at
a
shiver
in
the
skies
,
Vanishing
with
Satanic
cries
,
The
prim
ecclesiastic
rout
Leaves
but
a
startled
sleeper
-
out
,
Grey heavens
,
the
first bird
's
drowsy
calls
,
The falling
house
that never
falls
.
God
!
I
will
pack
,
and
take
a
train
,
And get me
to
England
once
again
!