Classic Poem

We sat and sang our hymns. The sweet-mouthed organ
Muted its music into dreariest drones.
The widow chose, then the aunt and strait-lipped daughter,
And rejoiced in the lingering, lugubrious tones.

Through the west mullion I could see the hawthorn
Baring his boughs, and scarce a leaf left behind.
The plain cold light grew dusk as we chose on,
And voices with the sad-stopped organ whined.

And then I chose “The Church's One Foundation,”
Because, I said, as a boy I liked it best.
As we sang all five verses I saw through the window
The young naked moon couched on the hawthorn's breast.