Oh, can't I help, poor four-legg'd, sad scarecrow? Poor parching bovine, you've no strength to low, Nor wish to nose the now-reached water's slack! Here, let my tender hand cup you this drink. But, bracing, swaying, trying to look back Where young lies prostrate as if from a throw -- Though fev'rishly in nostrils sunk I blow, Your strained heart breaks here at its poor goal's brink. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...CASSANDRA by RICHARD BARNFIELD WHITE MOMENTS by KATHARINE LEE BATES NATALIA'S RESURRECTION: 31 by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT THE DEATH-BOAT OF HELIGOLAND by THOMAS CAMPBELL UNTIL THE DAWN by HENRY CHAPPELL |