With the curlew, and the moonlight on the trees?
Do the wavelets ripple shoreward with the flotsam as the wrack,
When a fiddle plays the simple melodies?
Lonely, bent old Peter Nelson with the quaint, uncommon ways,
“Spruced and tidied” when the book of day was shut,
With the dim light in the window, and the friends of better days
Summoned round him by the fiddle in the hut.
THE CHURCH UPON THE HILL
A simple thing of knotted pine
And corrugated tin;