On cold, dark winter evenings, outdoors a wind storm sings; You hear a window rattle and a dead limb creaks and swings, And grown-ups sit around the fire and talk of diff' runt things. But I just fool around and grin, it feels so nice and snug, Till pretty soon I go and get my favorite book, and lug It near the fire, and stretch out on my stomach on the rug. Then by and by my mother raps her thimble on my head And says, "Why, boy, it's getting late! Come, run along to bed." Evenings in the summer, when it's just as light as day, With chirpy noises in the trees, and sounds from far away, And a sort of warm and grassy smell that makes you want to play; Why, then the boys come chasing round and whistle at the gate, And I slip off before I'm seen, or mother hollers "Wait! Go get your hat, and promise you'll be back before it's late!" Those summer nights it's father who gets after me instead, And calls me through the darkness, "Boy! Skip right along to bed." I think the morning's pretty long, especially in school; And afternoon has time enough to suit me, as a rule; But evenings they are always short, in winter, spring, or fall, And every time of year I like the evenings best of all. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TIE-DOWN OF A BONSAI by MARVIN BELL SPOKEN AT A CASTLE GATE by DONALD (GRADY) DAVIDSON SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY: ALBERT SCHIRDING by EDGAR LEE MASTERS NOTHING WILL CURE THE SICK LION BUT TO EAT AN APE' by MARIANNE MOORE LEAVES OF A MAGAZINE by MARIANNE MOORE PICKING AND CHOOSING by MARIANNE MOORE |