  God laughed when he made Grafton That’s under Bredon Hill, A jewel in a jewelled plain. The seasons work their will On golden thatch and crumbling stone, And every soft-lipped breeze Makes music for the Grafton men In comfortable trees. God’s beauty over Grafton Stole into roof and wall, And hallowed every pavÈd path And every lowly stall, And to a woven wonder Conspired with one accord The labour of the servant, The labour of the Lord. And momently to Grafton Comes in from vale and wold The sound of sheep unshepherded, The sound of sheep in fold, And, blown along the bases Of lands that set their wide Frank brows to God, comes chanting The breath of Bristol tide. |
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