Here you will find the Poem A Country God of poet Edmund Blunden
WHEN groping farms are lanterned up And stolchy ploughlands hid in grief, And glimmering byroads catch the drop That weeps from sprawling twig and leaf, And heavy-hearted spins the wind Among the tattered flags of Mirth,? Then who but I flit to and fro, With shuddering speech, with mope and mow, And glass the eyes of Earth? Then haunting by some moanish brook Where lank and snaky brambles swim Or where the hill pines swarthy look I whirry through the dark and hymn A dull-voiced dirge and threnody, An echo of the world's sad drone That now appals the friendly stars? O wail for blind brave youth whose wars Turn happiness to stone. How rang my cavern-shades of old To my melodious pipes, and then My bright-haired bergomask patrolled Each lawn and plot for laughter's din: Never a sower flung broad cast, No hedger brisked nor scythesman swung, Nor maiden trod the purple press But I was by to guard and bless And for their solace sang. * * * * But now the sower's hand is writhed In livid death, the bright rhythm stolen, The gold grain flatted and unscythed, The boars in the vineyard gnarled and sullen Havocking the grapes ; and the eve-jar wind Spins, and the spattered leaves of the glen In mockery dance the death-gavotte; With all my murmurous pipes forgot, And summer not to come again.
