Explore "Chalfont Saint Giles" by Frank Stuart Flint on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
The low graves are all grown over / with forget-me-not, / and a rich-green grass / links each with each. / Old family vaults, / some within railings, / stand here and there, / crumbling, moss-eaten, / with the ivy growing up them / and diagonally across / the top projecting slab.
And over the vaults / lean the great lilac bushes / with their heart-shaped leaves / and their purple and white blossom. / A wall of ivy shuts off the darkness / of the elm-wood and the larches.
Walk quietly / along the mossy paths; / the stones of the humble dead / are hidden behind the blue mantle / of their forget-me-nots; / and before one grave so hidden / a widow kneels, with head bowed, / and the crape falling / over her shoulders.
The bells for evening church are ringing, / and the people come gravely / and with red, sun-burnt faces / through the gates in the wall.
Pass on; / this is the church-porch, / and within the bell-ringers, / men of the village in their Sunday clothes, / pull their bob-major / on the red and white grip / of the bell-ropes, that fly up, / and then fall snakily. / They stand there given wholly / to the rhythm and swing / of their traditional movements.
And the people pass between them / into the church; / but we are too sad and too reverent / to enter.