A FORETIMES, fruitfulness and tilth were here. Snug granges held the harvests, acres broad Were rich in grass and grain; the good-man's board Groaned with its plenty, and a rustic cheer Sat in the homesteads sprinkled far and near. To-day, prosperity no more is lord; Choked wells, roofs fallen, weed-grown ways afford A vision desolate and a memory drear. Sons of New England, your ingratitude, Like that once shown to tragic Lear, is base! For now ye scorn the teeming mother-breast That gave you strength, and in a vagrant mood Will turn to alien meadows of the West, Or toward the peopled cities set your face. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE TRASH MEN by CHARLES BUKOWSKI FUGUE FOR A DROWNED GIRL by JAMES GALVIN THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER by SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE EASTER WINGS by GEORGE HERBERT A DEDICATION by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH AN INVOCATION by ISIDORE G. ASCHER SONNETS OF MANHOOD: 8. THEE by GEORGE BARLOW (1847-1913) |