John Kenyon Poems >>
Dorchester Amphitheatre .

By Rome’s old amphitheatre I stood,
 Still pretty perfect, on the Weymouth road,
 Within some half a mile of Dorchester.
 There had I come, as others come, to feed
 A curious eye, and win such thoughts as spring
 From sense of contrast ‘twixt the ideal Past
 And the fact-speaking Present. In good sooth
 Strange contrast did I find; for all within
 The oval boundary of that fair arena
  Was seen to spread a most unclassic growth
  Of vile potatoes! Plant, to me it seems,
  Aye somewhat vile to view; which, when the World
  New-found first gave it to our older climes,
  She gave with true utilitarian aim,
  
  Far more for use than beauty. But these were
  Of all most vile; black spotted, with torn leaves
  And draggled stalks; dank and disconsolate
  As Autumn rains and trampling feet could make them.
  Some pauper-hand had sown the ragged crop;
  No peasant’s, but some mean suburban hand;
  Whether with license from the corporation,
  Or of his own coarse will I might not learn,
  ‘Twas a sore check to fancy; and, full sure,
  Fine lady or yet finer gentleman,
  Fastidious dandlers of their own sweet wills,
  At once had quitted, in a brisk disgust,
  Potatoes-amphitheatre-and all.
  But I had learned (a lesson time will teach)
  To make the best of matters, and, beside,
  ‘Tis a wise pride, through the mind’s alchemy,
  To draw a pleasure from poor promisings
  Nor hard the task; for let but patience watch
  The process, and up-comes, in no long time,
  Through subtile ducts of feeling or of thought,
  The good which lurks in all things.

  So I went not;
  But, laid at length upon the topmost edge  
  Of that green circus, failed not soon to win
  Full recompence. For the benignant air
  Was very bliss to breathe; and evening, now,
  Was slanting her long shadows o’er the land,
  And, with her shadows, peace! All told of peace,
  Insensate things and things of life; each flake
  Of floating cloud, like white-sailed bark becalmed,
  That paused in the blue sky; the thrifty rook,
  Last labourer in the newly furrowed field,
  Seen wending homeward on slow-waving wing;
  And unyoked ox that, tranquil still, though freed,
  Swayed leisurely by, to food and needful rest
  In stable or night pasture. Nor did man
  Not profit by the hour; but stole him forth
  From out the precinct of the toiling town
  To taste, abroad, our nobler human rest,
  Which links with meditation; pondering, now,
  The quiet of the plain; now sending forth
  Freed thought to travel ‘mid the circling hills.

  Who may misprize Dorchestrian hills? What though
  They tower to no such height as looks with scorn
  Over a dwindled plain; what though no crags
  Be there to fortify; no forest belts
  
  To gird them midway round; yet theirs, instead,
  Are graceful slopes with shadowy dips between;
  And theirs are breezy summits, not too high
  To recognise familiar sights, and catch
  Familiar sounds of life, the ploughman’s call
  Or tinkling from the fold. Yet thence the eye
  Feeds on no stinted landscape, sky and earth
  And the blue sea; and thence may wing

(John Kenyon)

More Poetry from John Kenyon:

• Moonlight (John Kenyon Poems)
• Pretence. Part II - The Library (John Kenyon Poems)
• The Streams (John Kenyon Poems)
• The Gods Of Greece (John Kenyon Poems)
• Silchester (John Kenyon Poems)
• Shrine Of The Virgin - Part II (John Kenyon Poems)

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