The walk begins in a February that doesn’t yet feel like spring. The mud softens, little streams sparkle by the road, catkins wag in the hedge, but the earth seems determined to sleep on. The thin sunlight is just a “pretty February thing”—until the speaker reaches the old Manor Farm. There, beside an equally ancient church and yew, everything changes. The scene falls into a deep, drowsy silence: a Sunday stillness, a steep roof glowing with mid-day sun, white pigeons nestled, and three cart-horses lazily swishing at a single fly. In that quiet, winter seems to flush and smile, as if it has swallowed all the other seasons at once. But it is no longer winter at all. What the speaker feels is a season of perfect, unchanging bliss, something that has slept safely under the farm’s tiles and thatch for centuries—ever since an already old England was called “Merry.”
The Manor Farm — Summary
THE rock-like mud unfroze a little and rills Ran and sparkled down each side of the road Under the catkins wagging in the hedge. But earth would have her sleep out, spite of the sun; Nor did I value that thin gilding beam More than a pretty February thing Till I came down to the old Manor Farm, And church and yew-tree opposite, in age Its equals and in size. The church and yew And farmhouse slept in a Sunday silentness. The air raised not a straw. The steep farm roof, With tiles duskily glowing, entertained The mid-day sun; and up and down the roof White pigeons 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.