THE yardman, he with the coins on his watch-chain, stood Joking the housewife where she tied to the rafter A monstrous puffball found in the dust of the wood. "You'll come when you cut yourself next." He replied in laughter, "Them old remedies won't do a morsel of good." This I heard; This like many a chance-arriving word About my brain with the iron refrain of a mill-wheel's round recurred. Yet, being in the day's machine fresh-hacked, This night I pray the dewy stars to act, The stars, and moon, once of sweet influence known, Has even the moon a dusty puffball grown? Are those old remedies of sovran grace Unable now to touch the case? | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SELF-DEPENDENCE by MATTHEW ARNOLD THE SONG OF HIAWATHA: HIAWATHA AND MUDJEKEEWIS by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW FINDING CYNTHIA IN PAIN, AND CRYING; A SONNET by PHILIP AYRES THE LOVE SONNETS OF PROTEUS: 49. FAREWELL TO JULIET (11) by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT WHO WON THE DAY by ANNA HEMPSTEAD BRANCH RAMESES WORSHIPS RAMESES AT ABU SIMBEL by AMELIA JOSEPHINE BURR |