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‹Better GutenbergCountry SentimentTo E.M. — A Ballad of Nursery Rhyme · 31 of 44Contents›

Country Sentiment

by Robert Graves

31 of 44 · Contents · Download EPUB

To E.M. — A Ballad of Nursery Rhyme

Strawberries that in gardens grow
  Are plump and juicy fine,
But sweeter far as wise men know
  Spring from the woodland vine.

No need for bowl or silver spoon,
  Sugar or spice or cream,
Has the wild berry plucked in June
  Beside the trickling stream.

One such to melt at the tongue’s root,
  Confounding taste with scent,
Beats a full peck of garden fruit:
  Which points my argument.

May sudden justice overtake
  And snap the froward pen,
That old and palsied poets shake
  Against the minds of men.

Blasphemers trusting to hold caught
  In far-flung webs of ink,
The utmost ends of human thought
  Till nothing’s left to think.

But may the gift of heavenly peace
  And glory for all time
Keep the boy Tom who tending geese
  First made the nursery rhyme.

By the brookside one August day,
  Using the sun for clock,
Tom whiled the languid hours away
  Beside his scattering flock.

Carving with a sharp pointed stone
  On a broad slab of slate
The famous lives of Jumping Joan,
  Dan Fox and Greedy Kate.

Rhyming of wolves and bears and birds,
  Spain, Scotland, Babylon,
That sister Kate might learn the words
  To tell to toddling John.

But Kate who could not stay content
  To learn her lesson pat
New beauty to the rough lines lent
  By changing this or that.

And she herself set fresh things down
  In corners of her slate,
Of lambs and lanes and London town.
  God’s blessing fall on Kate!

The baby loved the simple sound,
  With jolly glee he shook,
And soon the lines grew smooth and round
  Like pebbles in Tom’s brook.

From mouth to mouth told and retold
  By children sprawled at ease,
Before the fire in winter’s cold,
  in June, beneath tall trees.

Till though long lost are stone and slate,
  Though the brook no more runs,
And dead long time are Tom, John, Kate,
  Their sons and their sons’ sons.

Yet as when Time with stealthy tread
  Lays the rich garden waste
The woodland berry ripe and red
  Fails not in scent or taste,

So these same rhymes shall still be told
  To children yet unborn,
While false philosophy growing old
  Fades and is killed by scorn.

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