THE hay-wain turns heavily down the dark lane Where the farm glimmers white through the dense beeches' ending, The dull drowsy jolt of the wheels of the wain Grows less down the dimness our hushed feet are wending: 'Tis late, and for long we have heard the cows low To enter the neat-house, where brown moths are winging, For firm and soft fingers (our fingers) so slow To loose their crushed udders and teats sideways swinging: The hay has delayed us, but soon we shall hear The long spirts of milk on the pail-bottoms drumming, As down through hands hollowed they slip warm and near Until in full pails of frothed milk they are humming. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE BALLAD OF JUDAS ISCARIOT by ROBERT WILLIAMS BUCHANAN A LITTLE DUTCH GARDEN by HARRIET WHITNEY DURBIN SONNET: 3 by WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE LINES TO THE MEMORY OF ANNIE WHO DIED AT MILAN, JUNE 6, 1860 by HARRIET BEECHER STOWE TO THE SMALL CELANDINE (1) by WILLIAM WORDSWORTH UNCROWNED by ALFRED GOLDSWORTHY BAILEY SONNETS OF MANHOOD: 35. BALACLAVA by GEORGE BARLOW (1847-1913) |