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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=537498" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Churchyard</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">HOW slowly creeps the hand of Time <br> On the old clock’s green-mantled face! <br>Yea, slowly as those ivies climb, <br> The hours roll round with patient pace; <br>The drowsy rooks caw on the tower, <br> The tame doves hover round and round; <br>Below, the slow grass hour by hour <br> Makes green God’s sleeping-ground. <br> <br>All moves, but nothing here is swift; <br> The grass grows deep, the green boughs shoot; <br>From east to west the shadows drift; <br> The earth feels heavenward underfoot; <br>The slow stream through the bridge doth stray <br> With water-lilies on its marge, <br>And slowly, pil’d with scented hay, <br> Creeps by the silent barge. <br> <br>All stirs, but nothing here is loud: <br> The cushat broods, the cuckoo cries; <br>Faint, far up, under a white cloud, <br> The lark trills soft to earth and skies; <br>And underneath the green graves rest; <br> And through the place, with slow footfalls, <br>With snowy cambric on his breast, <br> The old gray Vicar crawls. <br> <br>And close at hand, to see him come, <br> Clustering at the playground gate, <br>The urchins of the schoolhouse, dumb <br> And bashful, hang the head and wait; <br>The little maidens curtsey deep, <br> The boys their forelocks touch meanwhile, <br>The Vicar sees them, half asleep, <br> And smiles a sleepy smile. <br> <br>Slow as the hand on the clock’s face, <br> Slow as the white cloud in the sky, <br>He cometh now with tottering pace <br> To the old vicarage hard by: <br>Smother’d it stands in ivy leaves, <br> Laurels and yews make dark the ground; <br>The swifts that build beneath the eaves <br> Wheel in still circles round. <br> <br>And from the portal, green and dark, <br> He glances at the church-clock old— <br>Gray soul! why seek his eyes to mark <br> The creeping of that finger cold? <br>He cannot see, but still as stone <br> He pauses, listening for the chime, <br>And hears from that green tower intone <br> The eternal voice of Time.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=William+Cosmo+Monkhouse">William Cosmo Monkhouse</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=537498" data-title="The Churchyard de William Cosmo Monkhouse" data-description="HOW slowly creeps the hand of Time 
 On the old clock’s green-mantled face! 
Yea, slowly as those ivies climb, 
 The hours roll round with patient pace; 
The drowsy rooks caw on the tower, 
 The tame doves hover round and round; 
Below, the slow..."></div>
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