 | A Selection from Unpublished Poems |  |
18
THE VIEW BY THE TREES.
From up on the hill, I see, out through
The gap in the widelybroken rank
Of elm trees along the hillside bank,
The meadows and slopes, to hills of blue:
And roads where, from time to time, all day,
The people come on, and pass away.
The gap in the widelybroken rank
Of elm trees along the hillside bank,
The meadows and slopes, to hills of blue:
And roads where, from time to time, all day,
The people come on, and pass away.
There low-headed horses slowly haul
The newly-made hay, uploaded high,
To ride on the waggon, rustling dry,
To rick up beside the brown-roof'd stall:
And still, as a load is on its track,
An emptied waggon rattles back.
The newly-made hay, uploaded high,
To ride on the waggon, rustling dry,
To rick up beside the brown-roof'd stall:
And still, as a load is on its track,
An emptied waggon rattles back.
And down at the bridge, the children look
Out over the stonen wall, to see
The angler, below the willow tree,
Outfling, on the stream, his baited hook:
The while, from an arm-load bent awry,
The home-going maiden passes by.
Out over the stonen wall, to see
The angler, below the willow tree,
Outfling, on the stream, his baited hook:
The while, from an arm-load bent awry,
The home-going maiden passes by.
And there, as beneath the sinking sun,
The cows, at the boy's loud cry, “How! How!”
Go home to the pail; some ling'ring cow
Before the loud dog begins to run;
While horsemen along the road may go,
And each in his business, quick or slow.
The cows, at the boy's loud cry, “How! How!”
Go home to the pail; some ling'ring cow
Before the loud dog begins to run;
While horsemen along the road may go,
And each in his business, quick or slow.
There passes the girl to choose, in shops
In town, a new dress with dainty taste;
And there the sad mother steps with haste
Back home with the precious medicine drops;
Still sobbing a prayer that they may save
Her dear little child from, oh! the grave.
In town, a new dress with dainty taste;
And there the sad mother steps with haste
Back home with the precious medicine drops;
Still sobbing a prayer that they may save
Her dear little child from, oh! the grave.
| A Selection from Unpublished Poems | |