The Poplars

I HEARD the poplars of Saint John’s Letting their small notes go, Like silver dropping through a sieve, Down to the graves below.

The rector had that moment died; His house stood there apart, A look about it as though one Had struck it to the heart.

The shepherd of a straggling flock. Quick-spoken, easy, sound. No truer man had ever lived In the old country round.

I heard the poplars of Saint John’s Making such music there, As it were silver worn to thread Dropped down a silver air.

I counted them. Now he was dead, Sudden they came to sight. I counted five trees to the left, And four trees to the right.