There's not a villager now left to show Where it was once, although they make a feint; But call their bluff, and one will have to paint A neighbor's house that day; another go "Down-street," which means to the next town, you know, Four or five muddy, rutted miles away, Where wagons take their load to market day And ungroomed horses droop, tied in a row. But once, hid in the woods from prying Tory, Spy for a king who's fuming for the tax, This little hive could tell another story Whose few survivals now are bric-a-bracs -- A pale, blurred bottle that some auctioneer Holds up for bids; a curio from that year. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE WORLD AS WILL AND REPRESENTATION' by HAYDEN CARRUTH TAM O' SHANTER by ROBERT BURNS THE VILLAIN by WILLIAM HENRY DAVIES PENITENTIAL PSALM: 130. DE PROFUNDIS by THOMAS WYATT PRAYER FOR A BOY WITH A KITE by DOROTHY P. ALBAUGH UNPERFECTED by LOUISA SARAH BEVINGTON NATALIA'S RESURRECTION: 26 by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT |