Ford Madox Ford: The Starling

It's an odd thing how one changes! . . .
Walking along the upper ranges
Of this land of plains
In this month of rains,
On a drying road where the poplars march along,
Suddenly,
With a rush of wings flew down a company,
A multitude, throng upon throng,
Of starlings,
Successive orchestras of wind-blown song,
Whirled, like a babble of surf,
On to the roadside turf —

And so, for a mile, for a mile and a half . . . a long way
Flight followed flight,
Thro' the still, grey light
Of the steel-grey day,
Whirling beside the road in clamorous crowds,
Never near, never far, in the shade of the poplars and clouds.

It's an odd thing how one changes! . . .
And what strikes me now as most strange is,
After the starlings had flown
Over the plain and were gone,
There was one of them stayed on alone
On a twig; it chattered on high,
Lifting its bill to the sky,
Distending its throat,
Crooning harsh note after note,
In soliloquy,
Sitting alone.
And, after a hush,
It gurgled as gurgles a well,
Warbled as warbles a thrush,
Had a try at the sound of a bell
And mimicked a jay . . .
But I,
Whilst the starling mimicked on high,
Pulsing its throat and its wings,
I went on my way
Thinking of things
Onwards, and over the range
And that's what is strange.
 
I went down 'twixt tobacco and grain,
Descending the chequerboard plain
Where the apples and maize are,
Under the loop-holed gate
In the village wall
Where the goats clatter over the cobbles
And the intricate, straw-littered ways are . . .
The ancient watchman hobbles,
Cloaked, with his glasses of horn at the end of his nose,
With velvet short hose
And a three-cornered hat on his pate,
And his pike-staff and all;
And he carries a proclamation —
An invitation
To great and small,
Man and beast,
To a wedding feast;
And he carries a bell and rings . . .
From the steeple looks down a saint,
From a doorway a queenly peasant
Looks out, in her bride gown of lace,
And her sister, a quaint little darling
Who twitters and chirps like a starling.
And this little old place,
It's so quaint,
It's so pleasant,
And the watch bell rings and the church bell rings
And the wedding procession draws nigh,
Bullock carts, fiddlers and goods;
But I
Pass on my way to the woods
Thinking of things.
 
Years ago, I'd have stayed by the starling,
Marking the iridescence of his throat,
Marvelling at the change in his note;
I'd have said to the peasant child: 'Darling,
Here's a groschen and give me a kiss!' . . . I'd have stayed
To sit with the bridesmaids at table
And have taken my chance
Of a dance
With the bride in her laces
Or the maids with the blond, placid faces
And ribbons and crants in the stable. . . .
 
But the church bell still rings
And I'm far away out on the plain,
In the grey weather among the tobacco and grain,
And the village and gate and the wall
Are a long grey line with the church over all.
And miles and miles away in the sky
The starlings go wheeling round on high
Over the distant ranges.
The violin strings
Thrill away and the day grows more grey.
And I. . . . I stand thinking of things.
Yes, it's strange how one changes! . . .

From High Germany (1911). Ford was then writing as Ford Madox Hueffer. His discursive mode (dismissed by Ezra Pound as slackness) has had a strong subterranean influence on later poetry. Ford was an exceedingly attractive person, for all his infamous faults.