A colored woman, bent and old and wrinkled, Driving her country produce to the town, A small, black ox drawing a tiny ox-cart, With bags of apples or of butterbeans And peas, shelled by her busy, gnarled, old fingers; Black walnuts, beaten from their outer shells; Small pear tomatoes of a golden yellow; Brown eggs she gathered from her flock of hens; Fresh country sausage and sweet pats of butter And ears of popcorn, yellow, white and red. And always, in her heart, she kept a corner For little children, eager, wistful-eyed, And brought us many a homely, country treasure: Long honey-locusts, dappled green and brown, Jugs of sweet cider of her own home brewing And black, sloe cherries from one stunted tree. Treasures which never could be bought with money, But which, no doubt, we valued all the more, And 'round her little cart we always crowded, Sure of a welcome and a friendly smile. Long years have passed since we were little children, The aged country woman long has gone, But, on the Book of Memory's fragrant pages, Her patient, kindly face is living still. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...EROS TURANNOS by EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON QUATRAIN: AMONG THE PINES by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH THE GHOST OF ABEL; A RELATION IN THE VISIONS OF JEHOVAH by WILLIAM BLAKE A CUCKOO SONG by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT EPITAPH ON MR. TURNER OF ST. MARY-HALL by WILLIAM BROWNE (1591-1643) |