The day was long, it seemed as long
As Adam to the Flood;
I listened to the blackbird's song
But eyed the mud.

The mud that seemed to stretch right back
Through childhood and the farms
Of England, to a time quite black -
No singing, no alarms -

A physical time when the only clock
Was the sun, not the human heart;
When the chance pattern of splitting rock
Happened like art

Long forgotten, to leave its trace
Rumpled and wrinkled, obscure -
Like primaeval song to a new race
Uncomprehending the pure.

At seven the dusk began to fall
And a light rain started;
At length I heard a woman's call -
The blackbird departed.