The Poplars

I heard the poplars of Saint John's
Letting their small notes go,
Like silver dropping through a sieve,
Down to the graves below.

The rector had that moment died;
His house stood there apart,
A look about it as though one
Had struck it to the heart.

The shepherd of a straggling flock,
Quick-spoken, easy, sound,
No truer man had ever lived
In the old country round.

I heard the poplars of Saint John's
Making such music there,
As it were silver worn to thread
Dropped down a silver air.

I counted them. Now he was dead,
Sudden they came to sight.
I counted five trees to the left,
And four trees to the right.