In Grantchester, in Grantchester!— | 35 |
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, | 40 |
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, | 45 |
And, flower-lulled in sleepy grass, | |
Hear the cool lapse of hours pass, | |
Until the centuries blend and blur | |
In Grantchester, in Grantchester. Rupert Brooke
I once passed through
Grantchester by bike. Fences, complicated iron gates and barbed wire in the
surrounding fields tortured the eyes. A humble humdrumness emanated from the
dirty little brick homes. A tomfool wind blew up a pair of drawers hung out to
dry between two green stakes over the plant-beds of a pauper’s vegetable
garden. The faint tenor of a hoarse gramophone wafted up from the river.
Vladimar Nabokov
This is vintage Nabokov – one poet casting a baleful eye on another’s
arcadia. |
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Two views of an English village
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