Blue pines embrace the little church at Bow Where four roads tumble down the untrodden hill, And half a dozen houses in the snow Cluster and gossip round the silent mill. They stood there silent in New England wise. One smoked its chimney like a corncob pipe, And one looked at me with unblinking eyes, Testing ironic comment, not yet ripe. And two or three, more female than the rest, Twinkled their attic windows as I passed, Watching, amused, the crazy winter guest Who snowshoed where the deepest drifts were massed. Keen but not hostile was the town of Bow, Breaking its silence as I climbed the hill, Gathered and chuckling in the shadowed snow, Talking me over, clustered round the mill. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...CONTRA MORTEM: THE BEING by HAYDEN CARRUTH ESSAY ON STONE by HAYDEN CARRUTH MISSING THE BO IN THE HENHOUSE by HAYDEN CARRUTH NOT TRANSHISTORICAL DEATH, OR AT LEAST NOT QUITE by HAYDEN CARRUTH BALLROOM DARK by CLARENCE MAJOR SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY: ELIZABETH CHILDERS by EDGAR LEE MASTERS |