THERE was winter in those woods, And still it was July: There were Thule solitudes With thousands huddling nigh; There the fox had left his den, The scraped holes hid not stoats but men. To these woods the rumour teemed Of peace five miles away; I sight, hills hovered, houses gleamed Where last perhaps we lay Till the cockerels bawled bright morning and The hours of life slipped the slack hand. In sight, life's farms sent forth their gear; Here rakes and ploughs lay still; Yet, save some curious clods, all here Was raked and ploughed with a will. The sower was the ploughman too, And iron seeds broadcast he threw. What husbandry could outdo this? With flesh and blood he fed The planted iron that nought amiss Grew thick and swift and red, And in a night though ne'er so cold Those acres bristled a hundredfold. Why, even the wood as well as field This ruseful farmer knew Could be reduced to plough and tilled, And if he planned, he'd do; The field and wood, all bone-fed loam, Shot up a roaring harvest-home. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SEPULCHRE by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON APPROACH OF WINTER by WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS TREES by WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS THE HOUSEKEEPER by ROBERT FROST THE CORAL INSECT by LYDIA HUNTLEY SIGOURNEY THE BURGHERS OF CALAIS by EMILY A. BRADDOCK |