The white mists of mornin' Creep down the blue glen; I dast not look 'round Lest I turn back again. There's kindlin' to split, There's taters to hoe, But wide places are callin'! Maw, I just gotta go! There's smoke from the shanty I know you're about; Paw'll still be a snorin', His jug near, no doubt. It hurt not to tell you, -- Paw'd rail at you so; You can tell him in truth That I snuck out to go. Store shoes in my knap-sack To wear into town; My fiddle wrapped keerful -- It's all that I own. There's furrows to turn, There's goobers to sow, But the wide places call me; I just gotta go! The finger o' mornin' Points over the hill, I must follow the pointin' Let it lead where it will! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...COLORS by STEPHEN VINCENT BENET CONTRA MORTEM: THE WHEEL OF BEING II by HAYDEN CARRUTH SYNOPSIS OF A FAILED POEM by JAMES GALVIN AFTER WRITING A POEM by DAVID IGNATOW ON A PALMETTO by SIDNEY LANIER |