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lirik lagu eleanor bron - rupert brooke - the old vicarage of grantchester

just now the lilac is in bloom
all before my little room;
and in my flower~beds, i think
smile the carnation and the pink;
and down the borders, well i know
the poppy and the pansy blow . .
oh! there the chestnuts, summer through
beside the river make for you
a tunnel of green gloom, and sleep
deeply above; and green and deep
the stream mysterious glides beneath
green as a dream and deep as death
— oh, d~mn! i know it! and i know
how the may fields all golden show
and when the day is young and sweet
gild gloriously the bare feet
that run to bathe . .
‘du lieber gott!’

here am i, sweating, sick, and hot
and there the shadowed waters fresh
lean up to embrace the naked flesh
temperamentvoll german jews
drink beer around; — and there the dews
are soft beneath a morn of gold
here tulips bloom as they are told;
unkempt about those hedges blows
an english unofficial rose;
and there the unregulated sun
slopes down to rest when day is done
and wakes a vague unpunctual star
a slippered hesper; and there are
meads towards haslingfield and coton
where das betreten’s not verboten
granchester 2 . . . would i were
in grantchester, in grantchester! —
some, it may be, can get in touch
with nature there, or earth, or such
and clever modern men have seen
a faun a~peeping through the green
and felt the classics were not dead
to glimpse a naiad’s reedy head
or hear the goat~foot piping low: . .
but these are things i do not know
i only know that you may lie
day long and watch the cambridge sky
and, flower~lulled in sleepy grass
hear the cool lapse of hours pass
until the centuries blend and blur
in grantchester, in grantchester. . .
still in the dawnlit waters cool
his ghostly lordship swims his pool
and tries the strokes, essays the tricks
long learnt on h~llespont, or styx
dan chaucer hears his river still
chatter beneath a phantom mill
tennyson notes, with studious eye
how cambridge waters hurry by . .
and in that garden, black and white
creep whispers through the grass all night;
and spectral dance, before the dawn
a hundred vicars down the lawn;
curates, long dust, will come and go
on lissom, clerical, printless toe;
and oft between the boughs is seen
the sly shade of a rural dean . .
till, at a shiver in the skies
vanishing with satanic cries
the prim ecclesiastic rout
leaves but a startled sleeper~out
grey heavens, the first bird’s drowsy calls
the falling house that never falls
god! i will pack, and take a train
and get me to england once again!
for england’s the one land, i know
where men with splendid hearts may go;
and cambridgeshire, of all england
the shire for men who understand;
and of that district i prefer
the lovely hamlet grantchester
for cambridge people rarely smile
being urban, squat, and packed with guile;
and royston men in the far south
are black and fierce and strange of mouth;
at over they fling oaths at one
and worse than oaths at trumpington
and ditton girls are mean and dirty
and there’s none in harston under thirty
and folks in shelford and those parts
have twisted lips and twisted hearts
and barton men make c~ckney rhymes
and coton’s full of nameless crimes
and things are done you’d not believe
at madingley on christmas eve
strong men have run for miles and miles
when one from cherry hinton smiles;
strong men have blanched, and shot their wives
rather than send them to st. ives;
strong men have cried like babes, bydam
to hear what happened at babraham
but grantchester! ah, grantchester!
there’s peace and holy quiet there
great clouds along pacific skies
and men and women with straight eyes
lithe children lovelier than a dream
a bosky wood, a slumbrous stream
and little kindly winds that creep
round twilight corners, half asleep
in grantchester their skins are white;
they bathe by day, they bathe by night;
the women there do all they ought;
the men observe the rules of thought
they love the good; they worship truth;
they laugh uproariously in youth;
(and when they get to feeling old
they up and shoot themselves, i’m told) . .
ah god! to see the branches stir
across the moon at grantchester!
to smell the thrilling~sweet and rotten
unforgettable, unforgotten
river~smell, and hear the breeze
sobbing in the little trees
say, do the elm~clumps greatly stand
still guardians of that holy land?
the chestnuts shade, in reverend dream
the yet unacademic stream?
is dawn a secret shy and cold
anadyomene, silver~gold?
and sunset still a golden sea
from haslingfield to madingley?
and after, ere the night is born
do hares come out about the corn?
oh, is the water sweet and cool
gentle and brown, above the pool?
and laughs the immortal river still
under the mill, under the mill?
say, is there beauty yet to find?
and certainty? and quiet kind?
deep meadows yet, for to forget
the lies, and truths, and pain? . . . oh! yet
stands the church clock at ten to three?
and is there honey still for tea?

- lirik lagu eleanor bron

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