Classic Poem

Tall poplars down this long autumnal nave
Their yellow leaves in golden rain release;
Red vine-leaves deck a little English grave
Here in this far and foreign court-of-peace.

The year grows old, and I have strayed, indeed,
And yet is not the day for my return;
Faces and tongues are strange; and strange the screed
Traced here on many a marble cross and urn,

Save where I pause in Sabbath evening-light
Before these English lines. And, while I stay,
Up from a grass-hid nest blue wings take flight
And swift into the red West cleave their way.