 | Poetry of the Farm and Rural Life |  |
It was drip, drip, all day, very well I remember,
Back along in the forties, and month of November,
The highways were heavy, my nag worn and weary,
The scenery blinked at most dismally dreary,
For the Green Mountain range, to my grim contemplation,
Seemed the fag-end of all out-of-doors and creation.
Back along in the forties, and month of November,
The highways were heavy, my nag worn and weary,
The scenery blinked at most dismally dreary,
For the Green Mountain range, to my grim contemplation,
Seemed the fag-end of all out-of-doors and creation.
| Poetry of the Farm and Rural Life | |