When the old woods were young The thrushes' ancestors As sweetly sung In the old years. There was no garden here, Apples nor mistletoe; No children dear Ran to and fro. New then was this thatched cot, But the keeper was old, And he had not Much lead or gold. Most silent beech and yew: As he went round about The woods to view Seldom he shot. But now that he is gone Out of most memories, Still lingers on, A stoat of his, But one, shriveled and green, And with no scent at all, And barely seen On this shed wall. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...AN OLD MAN'S WINTER NIGHT by ROBERT FROST THE POPLAR FIELD by WILLIAM COWPER BEFORE SEDAN by HENRY AUSTIN DOBSON TEN YEARS AFTER by JOSEPH AUSLANDER MARATHON, SELECTION by CHARLOTTE FISKE BATES CORRESPONDENCES by CHARLES BAUDELAIRE WHEN GOD WEARIED by WILLIAM ROSE BENET PRELUDE TO FAITH by MARJORIE MERRILL BLISS SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE: 33 by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING |