We never climbed beyond the town Where one dark hill thrust toward the sky Grown ominous with black renown That holy living is damned by. We'd just to till our fields and keep Our fences circuitous of toil; And as we rose, so turn to sleep In rustic weariness of soil. The seasons through we came to sow The many pastures that we turned; And came at harvest time to mow The sheaves our laboring had earned. Always four fences turned to mark out The circumspection of our days; Six suns to walk our fields about; One hallelujah of soul's praise. The weeks were something gathered up Of sweat and prayers and hungering; Of wheaten cake and nectared cup -- And nights remembering the spring, When urgent evenings from the plough, That led us laggards to repose, We dreamed of hot breath at the brow -- But knew no heartache at the close. . . . Four fences mark our toiled-out days, Below a hill that scorns the sky, Where we, the heritors of grace, Labored -- and lie. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...LITTLE BROWN BABY by PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR TO FINE LADY WOULD-BE by BEN JONSON FONTENOY, 1745: 2. AFTER THE BATTLE, EARLY DAWN, CLARE COAST by EMILY LAWLESS TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN: THE THIRD DAY: AZRAEL by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW YUSSOUF by JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL THE BLUE-FLAG IN THE BOG by EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY |