NOW all the birds are flown, the first, the second brood, Save those poor nestlings prisoned in cages for good; The year seems to droop with its own midsummer might: Tarnishing mosses crowd even runnels out of sight. The ponds so wasted down scarce give their tenants breath, Who plunge their heads to the ooze, and sicken to their death Unless the clouds come on -- already their dead float Gleamless among the brambles that hide the moorhen's boat. Slow walks the farmer's cob with ever-switching tail Where the white dust-track glares; and labour dips his pail But slow where the sand-vein still bubbles its clear spring; The mat-mender squatting near wearily braids his string, And curses at the thunder-flies that blacken on his arm (As now they irk and terrify the gangers on the farm); And thinks once again when he charged across the sand In such torment, his reward -- a hook for a hand; And yet he labours on, till one o'clock drones, Muttering how the flies make the flesh creep on his bones -- Then hobbles for his beer, and lively by and by Talks forgotten battles with a tear in his eye. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...UNDER A TELEPHONE POLE by CARL SANDBURG PEACE by WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS THE HASTY PUDDING by JOEL BARLOW TO MARY by GEORGE GORDON BYRON I SAW A STABLE by MARY ELIZABETH COLERIDGE ON MY JOYFUL DEPARTURE FROM THE CITY OF COLOGNE by SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE |