Classic Poem

Long time in some forgotten churchyard earth of Warwickshire,
My fathers in their generations lie beyond desire,
And nothing breaks the rest, I know, of John Drinkwater now,
Who left in sixteen-seventy his roan team at plough.

And James, son of John, is there, a mighty plough-man too,
Skilled he was at thatching and the barleycorn brew,
And he had a heart-load of sorrow in his day,
But ten score of years ago he put it away.

Then Thomas came, and played a fiddle cut of mellow wood,
And broke his heart, they say, for love that never came to good …
A hundred winter peals and more have rung above his bed—
O, poor eternal grief, so long, so lightly, comforted.

And in the gentle yesterday these were but glimmering tombs,
Or tales to tell on fireside eves of legendary dooms;
I being life while they were none, what had their dust to bring
But cold intelligence of death upon my tides of Spring?

Now grief is in my shadow, and it seems well enough
To be there with my fathers, where neither fear nor love
Can touch me more, nor spite of men, nor my own teasing blame,
While the slow mosses weave an end of my forgotten name.