Rupert
Brooke .
in
Grantche by day;
all
they
.
Thought
Little
children
lovelier
than
a
dream
,
A
bosky
wood
,
a
slumbrous
stream
,
And
little kindly
winds
that
creep
Round
twilight
corners
,
half
asleep
.
In
Grantchester
their skins are white
;
They
bathe
by
day
,
they
bathe
by
night
.
The women
there
do
all they
ought
;
The men
observe
the Rules
of
Thought
.
They
love the Good
;
they
worship
Truth
;
They
laugh
uproariously
in
youth
;
(
And
when
they
get
to
feeling
old
,
They
up
and
shoot
themselves
,
I'm
told
.)
.
.
.
Ah
,
God
!
To
see
the
branches
stir
Across
the moon
at
Grantchester
!
To
smell
the thrilling
-
sweet
and
rotten
Unforgettable
,
unforgotten
River
-
smell
,
and hear
the breeze
Sobbing
in
the
little
trees
.
Say
,
do
the
elm
-
clumps greatly
stand
Still guardians
of
that holy land
?
The
chestnuts
shade
,
in
reverend
dream
,
The yet unacademic
stream
?
Is
dawn
a
secret
shy and
cold
Anadyomene
,
silver
-
gold
?
And
sunset
still
a
golden
sea
From
Haslingfield
to
Madingley
?
And after
,
ere
the night
is
born
,
Do hares come out about
the
corn
?
Oh
,
is
the water
sweet
and
cool
29