ON thy calm joys with what delight I dream Thou dear green valley of my native stream! Fancy o'er thee still waves the enchanting wand, And every nook of thine is fairy land, And ever will be, though the axe should smite In gain's rude service, and in pity's spite, Thy clustering alders, and at length invade The last, last poplars that compose thy shade: Thy stream shall then in native freedom stray, And undermine the willows in its way; These, nearly worthless, may survive this storm, This scythe of desolation, call'd "Reform." No army pass'd that way! yet are they fled, The boughs that, when a schoolboy, screen'd my head: I hate the murderous axe; estranging more The winding vale from what it was of yore, Than e'en mortality in all its rage, And all the change of faces in an age. "Warmth," will they term it, that I speak so free? They strip thy shades, -- thy shades so dear to me! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...PURSUIT OF THE WORD by ROBERT FROST THE PASSING OF THE EX-SLAVE by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON THE QUARREL by KATHERINE MANSFIELD DOMESDAY BOOK: WIDOW FORTELKA by EDGAR LEE MASTERS TO DISRAELI ON CONSERVATISM by MARIANNE MOORE THE TOMB AT AKR CAAR by EZRA POUND VILLANELLE OF CHANGE by EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON |