Monday, May 23, 2011


Milly Jourdain

There comes to me remembrance like a song,
Of slopes and rocks covered with thin brown grass,
And starred with scabious; there with eager hands
Grasping the slippery tufts of weeds, I climbed
To pick the bright red leaves of fading sorrel:
Then down I lay upon a sun-warmed rock,
And heard the shadowed river sing below.

From a Road

Milly Jourdain

Across the green valley the great hill raises its worn head through the pattern of fields which lie on its warm sides, brown in the summer sun.

Above the line of dark green hedges, beech copses straggle to the top: rooks fly over it and little white clouds.

The short grass is warm and the air is very clear.

For a moment I think I am walking on the hill, stooping and touching the ground with my hands.

But the trailing smell of honeysuckle from the hedge is blown to me, and I know that I cannot stir from the road.

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