Poetry of the Farm and Rural Life Connecticut River reeds blown by the "Peasant Bard" |
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A WINTER MORNING'S EPISTLE TO SAME |
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 | Poetry of the Farm and Rural Life |  |
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A WINTER MORNING'S EPISTLE TO SAME
January 18.
Dear Knick:
I'm siting meekly by the fire,
Watching the window-drifts grow higher.
A half-hour since, bold o'er my lyre,
I cried in rhyme,
Thalia, blessed! me inspire
To song sublime!
Watching the window-drifts grow higher.
A half-hour since, bold o'er my lyre,
I cried in rhyme,
Thalia, blessed! me inspire
To song sublime!
Whereat, at once the “frenzy fine”
That poets feel, is straightway mine,
And down, to trace the glowing line,
At once I set me,
With more than half the spicy Nine
Fain to abet me.
That poets feel, is straightway mine,
And down, to trace the glowing line,
At once I set me,
With more than half the spicy Nine
Fain to abet me.
Thoughts vigorous as the living oak,
Yet shapeless in their forest cloak;
Like rank-and-file in battle-smoke,
Enough appearing
To warrant some decisive stroke,
Or general clearing:
Yet shapeless in their forest cloak;
Like rank-and-file in battle-smoke,
Enough appearing
To warrant some decisive stroke,
Or general clearing:
Fancies around my goose-quill gleam,
As bright as ever led a dream;
Just on the very point, 't would seem,
Of being taken,
When Racket starts her noisy team,
The reins well shaken.
As bright as ever led a dream;
Just on the very point, 't would seem,
Of being taken,
When Racket starts her noisy team,
The reins well shaken.
Her team consists of children three,
Whose mother says they “look like me;”
More lively “bairns” you'll seldom see,
More fond of noise;
I've not the heart to chill their glee,
And damp their joys.
Whose mother says they “look like me;”
More lively “bairns” you'll seldom see,
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I've not the heart to chill their glee,
And damp their joys.
So while I write they make their fun,
And various are the doings done:
Bear-shooting with a wooden gun,
Myself the bear;
Or ranting round the floor they run,
Sledding a chair.
And various are the doings done:
Bear-shooting with a wooden gun,
Myself the bear;
Or ranting round the floor they run,
Sledding a chair.
A three-foot Stentor “Whoa! haw!” cries
His reckless hand the whip-lash plies;
We duck, and dodge, and wink our eyes
As 't whistles nigh us;
Till, crack! around my head it flies,
And I feel pious.
His reckless hand the whip-lash plies;
We duck, and dodge, and wink our eyes
As 't whistles nigh us;
Till, crack! around my head it flies,
And I feel pious.
About that time it gets to be
“Hard sledding,” quite too hard for me;
I serve injunctions, but, you see,
Silence don't follow;
Young “E Plu. Unum,” full of glee,
Must bu'st or hollo.
“Hard sledding,” quite too hard for me;
I serve injunctions, but, you see,
Silence don't follow;
Young “E Plu. Unum,” full of glee,
Must bu'st or hollo.
Concerted music doesn't fail;
But “By-lo-Baby,” “Lily Dale,”
Are done most feelingly, with hale
Vociferations,
In all the key-notes of the scale,
With “variations.”
But “By-lo-Baby,” “Lily Dale,”
Are done most feelingly, with hale
Vociferations,
In all the key-notes of the scale,
With “variations.”
My thoughts grow dim and fancies scatter;
No use the muse to coax or flatter;
At most she'll compromise the matter
By bidding me
In gleesome childhood's storm-bound clatter
My theme to see.
No use the muse to coax or flatter;
At most she'll compromise the matter
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In gleesome childhood's storm-bound clatter
My theme to see.
In casting retrospective squint
O'er what is penned, it seems her hint
Is acted on—not much else in 't;
But then I'll send it;
And maybe you'll conclude to print
It as I've penned it.
O'er what is penned, it seems her hint
Is acted on—not much else in 't;
But then I'll send it;
And maybe you'll conclude to print
It as I've penned it.
I'll merely add a word, to say
The “world of letters” should straightway
Go into mourning; well they may;
They came near getting
A perfect gem; alack-a-day!
'T was spoiled in setting!
The “world of letters” should straightway
Go into mourning; well they may;
They came near getting
A perfect gem; alack-a-day!
'T was spoiled in setting!
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