FREE BOOKS

Author's List




PREV.   NEXT  
|<   54   55   56   57   58   59   60   61   62   63   64   65   66   67   68   69   70   71   72   73   74   75   76   77   78  
79   80   81   82   83   84   85   86   87   88   89   90   91   92   93   >>  
nty blackbirds Baked into a pie. When the pie was opened The birds began to sing. Wasn't that a dainty dish To set before the King? The King was in the parlor Counting out his money; The Queen was in the kitchen Eating bread and honey; The maid was in the garden Hanging up the clothes, There came a little blackbird And picked off her nose. DRIVING HOME THE COWS. Out of the clover and blue-eyed grass, He turned them into the river lane; One after another he let them pass, Then fastened the meadow bars again. Along by the willows and over the hill He patiently followed their sober pace-- The merry whistle for once was still And something shadowed the sunny face. Only a boy, and his father had said He never could let his youngest go, Two already were lying dead Under the feet of the trampling foe. But, after the evening work was done, And the frogs were loud in the meadow swamp, Over his shoulder he slung his gun And stealthily followed the footpath damp. Across the clover and through the wheat, With resolute heart and purpose grim, Though cold was the dew on his hurrying feet, And the blind bat's flitting startled him. Thrice since then have the lanes been white And the orchards sweet with apple bloom, And now when the cows came back at night The feeble father drove them home; For news had come to the lonely farm That three were lying where two had lain, And the old man's tremulous, palsied arm Could never lean on a son's again. The summer day grew cool and late, He went for the cows when his work was done, But down the lane, as he opened the gate, He saw them coming, one by one. Brindle and Ebony, Speckle and Bess, Tossing their horns in the evening wind, Cropping the buttercups out of the grass, But who was it following close behind? Loosely swung in the idle air The empty sleeve of army blue, And worn and pale through its crisped hair Looked out a face that the father knew. For Southern prisons will sometimes yawn And yield their dead to life again, And the day that comes with a cloudy dawn In golden
PREV.   NEXT  
|<   54   55   56   57   58   59   60   61   62   63   64   65   66   67   68   69   70   71   72   73   74   75   76   77   78  
79   80   81   82   83   84   85   86   87   88   89   90   91   92   93   >>  



Top keywords:

father

 

clover

 

meadow

 
evening
 

opened

 

Looked

 

feeble

 

lonely

 
Southern
 

prisons


Thrice

 
startled
 

golden

 
flitting
 

cloudy

 

orchards

 

coming

 
Loosely
 

Brindle

 

Tossing


Cropping

 
Speckle
 

palsied

 

crisped

 

tremulous

 

buttercups

 
sleeve
 

summer

 
picked
 

blackbird


Hanging

 

clothes

 

DRIVING

 

turned

 
garden
 
dainty
 
blackbirds
 

kitchen

 

Eating

 

parlor


Counting

 

fastened

 
stealthily
 

footpath

 

shoulder

 

Across

 
Though
 

hurrying

 

purpose

 

resolute