-Elizabeth Brewster
The Canon, pastor of a peaceful flock,
Was always all his people could desire.
Prosily pious, placidly devout,
Not given much to spend his time in prayer,
Taking his faith on faith and without doubt,
Fond of his food, his dogs, his pipe, his jokes,
Perhaps a little less fond of his wife,
Charitable and in the main good-natured.
His sermons never kept a soul awake,
But there was never any nonsense about them.
Companionable and hearty with the men,
He complimented their wives with discreet bluntness.
His round, red, cheerful face, enwreathed in smiles,
Beamed frankly out on every social meeting.
It was a pity, so the people said,
His wife was not more like him. The parson's wife
Should be more sociable, a better mixer.
But she was shy, perhaps a little cold.
She never joined the Guild or sang in the choir,
Was never active in good works, had been known to smile,
Perhaps maliciously, at those who were.
Prim and a trifle bookish, she kept aloof
From all her neighbours, from her husband too.
Their only child, their little daughter Anne,
Died suddenly when she was twelve years old,
And each endured a solitary grief.
The mother, folding up her daughter's dresses,
Bought a new lap-dog, walked the length of town,
Smiling her calm smile at the passing neighbours.
The Canon, with his round, bewildered face
No longer red, stood in his pulpit, gazed
Uncertainly about him, read his text,
Stopped in the middle of a sentence, stared
A full five minutes out the open door,
And said, "Beloved, let us meditate
On the Communion of Saints. I have nothing to say."