THE copse ha' got his shiady boughs, Wi' blackbirds' evemen whissles; The hills ha' sheep upon ther brows, The zummerleäze ha' thissles. The meads be gay in grassy May, But O vrom hill to holler, Let I look down upon a groun' O' carn a-turnen yoller. An' pease da grow in tangled beds, An' beäns be sweet to snuff, O; The tiaper woats da bend ther heads, The barley's beard is rough, O; The turnip green is fresh between The carn in hill ar holler, But I'd look down upon the groun' O' wheat a-turnen yoller. 'Tis merry when the brawny men Da come to reap it down, O, Wher glossy red the poppy head 'S among the sta'ks so brown, O; 'Tis merry while the wheat's in hile Ar when, by hill ar holler, The leäzers thick da stoop to pick The ears so ripe ar yoller. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...EMERGENCY HAYING by HAYDEN CARRUTH THE COLOR SERGEANT by JAMES WELDON JOHNSON UNDER THE CEDARCROFT CHESTNUT by SIDNEY LANIER VERY EARLY SPRING by KATHERINE MANSFIELD LINCOLN TRIUMPHANT by EDWIN MARKHAM DOMESDAY BOOK: BARRETT BAYS by EDGAR LEE MASTERS DOMESDAY BOOK: FATHER WHIMSETT by EDGAR LEE MASTERS DOMESDAY BOOK: THE HOUSE THAT JACK BUILT by EDGAR LEE MASTERS |