Chalfont Saint Giles
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.