 | Poems of Rural Life in Common English |  |
178
THE VOICE AT HOME
Though black the winter clouds might rise
To back the rick's brown tip,
Though dark might reach the leafless hedge,
And bark of trees might drip,
With health and work and livelihood,
I never pin'd for others' good.
To back the rick's brown tip,
Though dark might reach the leafless hedge,
And bark of trees might drip,
With health and work and livelihood,
I never pin'd for others' good.
And down along the timber'd grove,
All brown with leaves long shed,
Where round the ivy-hooded thorn
The ground was dry to tread,
I then would walk in home, with pride,
On foot, and heedless who might ride.
All brown with leaves long shed,
Where round the ivy-hooded thorn
The ground was dry to tread,
I then would walk in home, with pride,
On foot, and heedless who might ride.
179
And come from evening's chilly shades,
In home, I took, at night,
My place within the settle's back,
With face in fire-light,
Where one would spread my evening board
With soul-beguiling smile and word.
In home, I took, at night,
My place within the settle's back,
With face in fire-light,
Where one would spread my evening board
With soul-beguiling smile and word.
Then high above the chimney top,
Might cry the wind, and low
Might sound, beside my window panes,
And round my porch's bow,
Its sounds that now so sadly moan
Where one sweet voice no more is known.
Might cry the wind, and low
Might sound, beside my window panes,
And round my porch's bow,
Its sounds that now so sadly moan
Where one sweet voice no more is known.
How sweetly seem'd the running waves
To meet the mossy rock,
As quickly-flapping flames might play
By tickings of the clock;
But now their sounds are sad to hear,
Since one sweet tongue no more is near.
To meet the mossy rock,
As quickly-flapping flames might play
By tickings of the clock;
But now their sounds are sad to hear,
Since one sweet tongue no more is near.
| Poems of Rural Life in Common English | |