There's not a villager now left to show Where it was once, although they make a feint; But call their bluff, and one will have to paint A neighbor's house that day; another go "Down-street," which means to the next town, you know, Four or five muddy, rutted miles away, Where wagons take their load to market day And ungroomed horses droop, tied in a row. But once, hid in the woods from prying Tory, Spy for a king who's fuming for the tax, This little hive could tell another story Whose few survivals now are bric-a-bracs -- A pale, blurred bottle that some auctioneer Holds up for bids; a curio from that year. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SONNET: 50 by GEORGE SANTAYANA ELEGY: THE GHOST WHOSE LIPS WERE WARM; FOR GEOFFREY GORER by EDITH SITWELL IN THE HOLY NATIVITY [OF OUR LORD GOD]; AS SUNG BY SHEPHERDS by RICHARD CRASHAW VIRTUE [OR, VERTUE] by GEORGE HERBERT TO SOME LADIES [ON RECEIVING A CURIOUS SHELL] by JOHN KEATS AIRLY BEACON by CHARLES KINGSLEY |