I see an upland pasture, clover-blown, Where grave-eyed cattle graze the meadow-side; And in the wavy blot of shade a lonely tree has thrown, A little boy lies dreaming, open-eyed. And something in the fair-gowned buckwheat fields, And in the hill lined out against the sky, And in the kindly spreading tree a subtle bondage wields; I look—and lo! the little boy is I. Afar, blue peaks that one time edged the world— White clouds—a boyhood's realm of Maybe-so; And from the deeps of memory a tapestry's unfurled Of small boy visions, woven long ago. And years and deeds went always hand in hand. In those fair pictures. Yet to-day there seems A small voice crying sorrowf'ly from sky and clover-land That I am not the figure of the dreams. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...DESPAIR by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON THE PASSING OF THE EX-SLAVE by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON HER EYES by EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON FACADE: 2. THE BAT by EDITH SITWELL THE SHPEHERD'S HOUR by PAUL VERLAINE |