First I will go to the ancient house Where Doomsday book was planned, And cool my body and soul in shade Of pillars huge which stand Where the organ echoes thunder-like Its paean of triumph and praise In a temple lovely as ever the love Of Beauty’s God did raise. Gargoyles will thrust out heads to hearken, A frozen forest of stone Echo behind me as I pass Out of the shadow alone To buzz and bustle of Barton Fair And its drifting droves of sheep, To find three miles away the village Where I will sleep. Minsterworth, queen of riverside places (Save Framilode, who can vie?), To her I’ll go when day has dwindled And the light low in the sky; And my troubles shall fall from me, a bundle, And youth come back again, Seeing the smoke of her houses and hearing The talk of Minsterworth men. I’ll drink my perry and sing my song Of home and home again, Pierced with the old miraculous pleasure Keen as sharpest pain; And if I rise to sing on the morrow Or if I die in my bed, ’Tis all the same: I’ll be home again, And happy alive or dead. THE MOON What have you not seen, Old White-face, looking down Since the heavens were hollowed out And winds were blown? You saw white Helen On the walls of Troy Town, You silvered dew on the ruin When Troy shook down. Ulysses you saw And the strange seas that bore him; But all he wandered to see You had seen before him. Bodies black and yellow, Gold tresses and brown, The brown earth covers them ... And you look down. THE WIND’S GRIEF The wind is grieving. Over what old woe Howls it as though Its very heart would break?-- The roving wind who merrily did make A song all day in woods and meadows gay Grieves in the night. Is it for olden evil it hath done ’Neath moon and sun Since first it roved the world? Brave trees uprooted, ships and sailors hurled To stormy death? or for the passing breath Of flowers bright? A WINDY NIGHT The rain is done; and a great wind, Filling the hollow night, He shouts like a boy in an archway And whistles with all his might. He has blown the sky empty, Except for the little stout Stars, and they are flickering As if they might go out. All the black trees are crying; The night is full of noise; They are shouting under the arch of heaven Like a school of rowdy boys. RIDDLE CUM RUDDLE The wains be unloaded, the ricks be in stack-- Riddle cum Ruddle, the harvest’s whoam; An’ varmer be merry, an’ me an’ Jack Sing Riddle cum Ruddle, the harvest’s whoam. There’s wuts for the horses and hay for the cow-- Riddle cum Ruddle, the harvest’s whoam; And wheat for bread, and barley for brew-- Sing Riddle cum Ruddle, the harvest’s whoam