With tiles duskily glowing, entertainеd
The mid-day sun; and up and down the roof
White pigеons nestled.  There was no sound but one.
Three cart-horses were looking over a gate
Drowsily through their forelocks, swishing their tails
Against a fly, a solitary fly.
The Winter's cheek flushed as if he had drained
Spring, Summer, and Autumn at a draught
And smiled quietly.  But 'twas not Winter—
Rather a season of bliss unchangeable
Awakened from farm and church where it had lain
Safe under tile and thatch for ages since
This England, Old already, was called Merry.
The final line is a reference that soldiers in the trenches might well have appreciated when they found this in their poetry anthology. England is “Old already” and “Merry”. The latter is an important cultural trope and, of course, a myth. Life for the majority of the population was unrelentingly hard — grinding poverty and unremitting work, far from “merry”. The idea, however, for many, was comforting and reassuring.
The Manor Farm