Poetry of the Farm and Rural Life Connecticut River reeds blown by the "Peasant Bard" |
 |
|
| 1. |
| 2. |
| 3. | III. ASH. |
|
|
 | Poetry of the Farm and Rural Life |  |
9
III. ASH.
Sounds the rooster's wakeful warning:
'T is a damp and foggy morning,
Thick and gray;
Sure the shades of night are fled,
But there's something else instead
Of the day.
'T is the night, painted white,
And the eye is unavailing
In the vapor all assailing
With its shroud;
We are gloom'd, gloom'd, gloom'd!
All the landscape is entombed
In a cloud!
'T is a damp and foggy morning,
Thick and gray;
Sure the shades of night are fled,
But there's something else instead
Of the day.
'T is the night, painted white,
And the eye is unavailing
In the vapor all assailing
With its shroud;
We are gloom'd, gloom'd, gloom'd!
All the landscape is entombed
In a cloud!
'T is the time when winds are sighing,
And the leaves—they are dying,
And are dead;
See the ashes, tall and slim,
Standing by the water's brim,
Where they fed;
How they shed all their dead
Summer plumes that hid the nest
Where the birdie took its rest
'Mid the leaves!
Down dripping, dripping, dripping,
Like the rain, softly slipping,
From the eaves.
And the leaves—they are dying,
And are dead;
See the ashes, tall and slim,
Standing by the water's brim,
Where they fed;
How they shed all their dead
Summer plumes that hid the nest
Where the birdie took its rest
'Mid the leaves!
Down dripping, dripping, dripping,
Like the rain, softly slipping,
From the eaves.
There 's a sort of muffled drumming,
For the distant mill is humming,
Grinding grist;
And the fisher-king is winging,
And his clacking rattle springing
In the mist:
And I hear, seeming near,
As it were, the distant greeting
Of two early goers, meeting—
Strangely loud;
And the clipper, clipper, clipper!
How the wings of that “dipper”
Cut the cloud!
For the distant mill is humming,
Grinding grist;
10
And his clacking rattle springing
In the mist:
And I hear, seeming near,
As it were, the distant greeting
Of two early goers, meeting—
Strangely loud;
And the clipper, clipper, clipper!
How the wings of that “dipper”
Cut the cloud!
But the sun at last is wading
Through the vapor overshading—
There he shines!
And the curtain, upward stealing,
Slow the landscape is revealing,
“To the Nines.”
Stooks of grain on the plain
Look like wigwams on the prairie,
Some encampment of the wary
Brothers red;
And with tittle, tattle, tattle,
Waters sparkle as they prattle
O'er their bed.
Through the vapor overshading—
There he shines!
And the curtain, upward stealing,
Slow the landscape is revealing,
“To the Nines.”
Stooks of grain on the plain
Look like wigwams on the prairie,
Some encampment of the wary
Brothers red;
And with tittle, tattle, tattle,
Waters sparkle as they prattle
O'er their bed.
But the eye of day is dimmer
Than in summer; has a glimmer
Palely bright;
Phœbus wearies of his toil,
Or is getting short of oil
For his light.
But the flowers still are ours:
There's a honeysuckle twining,
And the golden-rod is shining,
Bright to view;
And, oh! bonnie, bonnie, bonnie!
There's the fringy little honey,
Gentian blue!
Than in summer; has a glimmer
Palely bright;
Phœbus wearies of his toil,
Or is getting short of oil
For his light.
But the flowers still are ours:
There's a honeysuckle twining,
And the golden-rod is shining,
Bright to view;
11
There's the fringy little honey,
Gentian blue!
And the days are shorter growing:
Down the Occidental going,
Sinks the sun;
And the stars that night adorn,
Clip the twilight, and are born,
All as one.
Oh, my soul! so they roll—
Roll the days, the months, the years!
Full of gladness, full of tears
Are our eyes;
Till, solemn, solemn, solemn,
Foots the sum-total column:
Here he lies!
Down the Occidental going,
Sinks the sun;
And the stars that night adorn,
Clip the twilight, and are born,
All as one.
Oh, my soul! so they roll—
Roll the days, the months, the years!
Full of gladness, full of tears
Are our eyes;
Till, solemn, solemn, solemn,
Foots the sum-total column:
Here he lies!
| Poetry of the Farm and Rural Life | |