Up to the bed by the window, where I be lyin', Comes bells and bleat of the flock wi' they two children's clack. Over, from under the eaves there's the starlings flyin', And down in yard, fit to burst his chain, yapping out at Sue I do hear young Mac. Turning around like a falled-over sack I can see team ploughin' in Whithy-bush field and meal carts startin' up road to Church-Town; Saturday arternoon the men goin' back And the women from market, trapin' home over the down. Heavenly Master, I wud like to wake to they same green places Where I be know'd for breakin' dogs and follerin' sheep. And if I may not walk in th' old ways and look on th' old faces I wud sooner sleep. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SELF-REJECTED by JEAN STARR UNTERMEYER FOR THE FALLEN (SEPTEMBER 1914) by LAURENCE BINYON WINTER: MY SECRET by CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI ASTROPHEL AND STELLA: 49 by PHILIP SIDNEY AN ARMY CORPS ON THE MARCH by WALT WHITMAN AMY WENTWORTH; FOR WILLIAM BRADFORD by JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER |