The wild-eyed team with horned and swaying heads Goes past; the teamster waves his glad 'Good-day.' There's load on load of timber at the sheds And still he would not care to come my way. While miracles of bush-flowers burst and move About him, these he will not turn to share. Yet, like a child eager for things to love He's hungry to be told what things are fair. Within him there's a spirit careless, free; Slow to condemn he is and slow to praise, Profuse in grumbling generosity, And drenched at heart with the light of burning days. And there he strides with all this on his head, Bawling through dust his blasphemous commands; The team's his life; he's mountain born and bred; In death the whip lies in his sunburnt hands. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...CONTRA MORTEM: THE CHILD'S BEING by HAYDEN CARRUTH FISH-LEAP FALL by ROBERT FROST A PARADOX by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON THE RIVALS by JAMES WELDON JOHNSON STUDY FOR A GEOGRAPHICAL TRAIL; 3. WASHINGTON, D.C. by CLARENCE MAJOR BROTHERHOOD (2) by EDWIN MARKHAM |