At Bradwell in the marshes

There is an inn.

Few are the travellers

Have rested therein.

The folk that sit there

Have but little to say;

They sit looking out of the window

At the churchyard across the way.

Growing among the graves

Is a green weeping willow.

The graves are all green

And peaceful as a pillow.

The bar-parlour is shaded

With a green gloom,

As if the willow-branches

Were waving in the room.

Churchyard and church and inn—

They are all very old.

Even the beer they draw there

Seems to taste of the mould.