 | Poetry of the Farm and Rural Life |  |
An hour, more or less, of monotonous tread,
Horse turned a right angle, I lifted my head.
And high in the air hung a beacon of light,
Thrice large as old Jupiter on a clear night,
But whether of heaven or earth, I knew not,
Till Pomp pricked his ears and broke into a trot,
And with three minutes trotting, mayhap little more,
Brought me up to the “Green Mountain Coffee House” door.
Horse turned a right angle, I lifted my head.
And high in the air hung a beacon of light,
Thrice large as old Jupiter on a clear night,
But whether of heaven or earth, I knew not,
Till Pomp pricked his ears and broke into a trot,
And with three minutes trotting, mayhap little more,
Brought me up to the “Green Mountain Coffee House” door.
| Poetry of the Farm and Rural Life | |