John Betjeman


Now with the threat growing still greater within me,
    The Church dead that was hopelessly over-restored,
The fruit picked from these yellowing Worcestershire orchards
    What is left to me, Lord?

To wait until next year’s bloom at the end of the garden
    Foams to the Malvern Hills, like and inland sea,
And to know that its fruit, dropping in autumn stillness,
    May have outlived me.