Ah God! to see the branches stir	Across the moon at Grantchester!	To smell the thrilling-sweet and rotten	Unforgettable, unforgotten	River-smell, and hear the breeze	 Sobbing in the little trees.	Say, do the elm-clumps greatly stand	Still guardians of that holy land?	The chestnuts shade, in reverend dream,	The yet unacademic streamIs dawn a secret shy and cold	Anadyomene, silver-gold?	And sunset still a golden sea	From Haslingfield to Madingley?	And after, ere the night is born,Do hares come out about the corn?	Oh, is the water sweet and cool,	Gentle and brown, above the pool?	And laughs the immortal river still	Under the mill, under the mill?Say, is there Beauty yet to find?	And Certainty? and Quiet kind?	Deep meadows yet, for to forget	The lies, and truths, and pain?… oh! yet	Stands the Church clock at ten to three?	And is there honey still for tea?
Rupert Brooke, The Old Vicarage, Grantchester
melancholy, memories, reminiscence