In the valley the birches are bored. On the meadows, fog billows and weighs. Sodden, with horse-dung floored, The highroad blackens in haze. Rich on the steppe's sleepy air, The odor of freshly-baked bread. Bent to their packs, slowly fare Two beggars to look for a bed. Round puddles gleam in the streets. The fumes of the ovens stun. Thawing, the bleak earthen seats Smolder and steam in the sun. By the corn-bin, dragging his chain, The sheep-dog yawns on the sill. Walls smoke with the charcoal stain. The steppe is foggy and still. The carefree cock will perform Day-long for the sap-stirred earth. In the fields it is drowsy and warm. In the heart - indolent mirth. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TROY PARK: 1. THE WARMTH OF SPRING by EDITH SITWELL HOLIDAY AT HAMPTON COURT by JOHN DAVIDSON ODE ON MELANCHOLY by JOHN KEATS ODE TO THE SWALLOW by ANACREON THE UNKNOWN HAND by CLIFFORD BAX HINC LACHRIMAE; OR THE AUTHOR TO AURORA: 8 by WILLIAM BOSWORTH |