They who prepare my evening meal below Carelessly hit the kettle as they go With tongs or shovel, And ringing round and round, Out of this hovel It makes an eastern temple by the sound. At first I thought a cow bell right at hand Mid birches sounded o'er the open land, Where I plucked flowers Many years ago, Spending midsummer hours With such secure delight they hardly seemed to flow. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...POST-MORTEM by EMILY DICKINSON FOR G. by WILFRID WILSON GIBSON A SUNRISE SONG by SIDNEY LANIER HAWTHORNE by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW PROUD MAISIE, FR. THE HEART OF MIDLOTHIAN by WALTER SCOTT |