He has built a pyre on his feed-lot hill -- Its rancid smoke sends ribbons to the sky; What solace can be offered now to him Who finds his dreams all shattered by a scourge Which flung its curse upon his barn and sty? Were this the year's first plague he might be brought To see that sun above his wind-break's crest, But since the drifts turned mist in early spring It seems some evil charm of death has worked Until it choked the hope within his breast. One needs abundant faith to tide him through The span of snow-days when the fields are wrapped, But if his herds are thinned when seed-time comes And he must spade deep graves at foaling time His heart is sickened and his soul is sapped. Now after toiling down the parching rows All summer through with furrow-weary tread, He hears in answer to his whispered prayers No sound of clicking hoofs about his pens, And he is wordless like his creature dead. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...POOR DEVIL! by STEPHEN VINCENT BENET A DREAM OF JULIUS CAESAR by ROBERT FROST ON THE INFLATION OF THE CURRENCY, 1919 by ROBERT FROST YOUR WORLD by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON THE BOSTON ATHENAEUM by AMY LOWELL GEORGE MOORE by MARIANNE MOORE THE LEAVES FIRST by CARL PHILLIPS FLEMING HELPHENSTINE by EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON HYBRIDS OF WAR: A MORALITY POEM: 3. THAILALND by KAREN SWENSON |