Geoffrey Hill(b. 1932)
9. The Laurel Axe
A u t u m n r e s u m e s the land, ruffles the w o o d s
with s m o k y wings, e n t a n g l e s t h e m . Trees s h i n e
out f r o m their leaves, rocks m i l d e w to m o s s - g r e e n ;
the a v e n u e s are spread w i t h brittle floods.
Platonic England, h o u s e of solitudes,
rests in its laurels and its injured stone,
replete w i t h c o m p l e x f o r t u n e s that are g o n e ,
b e s e t by dynasties of m o o d s a n d clouds.
It stands, as t h o u g h at ease with its o w n world,
the mannerly extortions, languid praise,
all that devotion l o n g s i n c e b o u g h t and sold,
the r o o m s of cedar and s o f t - t h u d d i n g baize,4
t r e m u l o u s boudoirs w h e r e the crystals kissed
in c a b i n e t s of a m e t h y s t and frost.