BY CHRISTIAN OWEN

The inn where we shall rest when we are old—

Friend of the mind and summer of the soul—

Whose friendly brick buildings flower in the sun

And whose low doorways lure the sober man in,

The table scratched and scarred, where we shall sit

And learn about love and magic under the trellis 

And see the dew upon the bright green plums

And watch the barns burn with the drifted fire

And the dark valley where the church bells chime

And the deep bray of horse or distant train

Sunk under leaves that blossom in the light— 

The inn where we shall rest when we are old,

Whose blue or brick or wisteria’d front

Faces toward the sun that gilds the wooded hills, 

And such a sky as only England knows.