THE whip cracks on the plough-team's flank, The thresher's flail beats duller. The round of day has warmed a bank Of cloud to primrose colour. The dairy girls cry home the kine, The kine in answer lowing; The rough-haired louts with sleepy shouts Keep crows whence seed is growing. The creaking wain, brushed through the lane, Hangs straws on hedges narrow; And smoothly cleaves the soughing plough, And harsher grinds the harrow. Comes, from the road-side inn caught up, A brawl of crowded laughter, Thro' falling brooks and cawing rooks And a fiddle scrambling after. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...FLOWERS WITHOUT FRUIT by JOHN HENRY NEWMAN ANACTORIA by ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE MAN FRAIL AND GOD ETERNAL by ISAAC WATTS MY SHIP by ELIZABETH AKERS ALLEN THAMES GULLS by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN WARNING AND REPLY by EMILY JANE BRONTE OBSERVATIONS IN THE ART OF ENGLISH POESY: 11. TROCHAIC VERSE: THE SEVENTH EPIGRAM by THOMAS CAMPION |