The cow swings her head in a deep drowsy half-circle to and over Flank and shoulder, lunging At flies; then fragrantly plunging Down at the web-washed grass and the golden clover, Wrenching sideways to get the full tingle; with one warm nudge, One somnolent wide smudge Sacred to kine, Crushing a murmurous afternoon of late lush August to wine! The sky is even water-tone behind suave poplar trees -- Color of glass; the cows Occasionally arouse That color, disturb the pelucid cool poplar frieze With beauty of motion slow and succinct like some grave privilege Fulfilled. They taste the edge Of August, they need No more: they have rose vapors, flushed silence, pulpy milkweed. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...BUCOLIC COMEDY: SPRING by EDITH SITWELL HALF-WAKING by WILLIAM ALLINGHAM WHEN ON THE MARGE OF EVENING by LOUISE IMOGEN GUINEY APOLOGIA PRO POEMATE MEO by WILFRED OWEN ODES: BOOK 1: ODE 2. ON THE WINTER SOLSTICE, 1740 by MARK AKENSIDE |