THE whip cracks on the plough-team's flank, The thresher's flail beats duller. The round of day has warmed a bank Of cloud to primrose colour. The dairy girls cry home the kine, The kine in answer lowing; The rough-haired louts with sleepy shouts Keep crows whence seed is growing. The creaking wain, brushed through the lane, Hangs straws on hedges narrow; And smoothly cleaves the soughing plough, And harsher grinds the harrow. Comes, from the road-side inn caught up, A brawl of crowded laughter, Thro' falling brooks and cawing rooks And a fiddle scrambling after. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE CRESCENT AND THE CROSS by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH EPITAPH ON SUSANNAH BARBAULD MARISSAL by ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD SONG by WILLIAM STANLEY BRAITHWAITE THANKS TO SIR WALTER by CHARLES WILLIAM BRODRIBB OUT IN THE FIELDS [WITH GOD] by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING FUNERAL MASS: REQUIEM by BORIS NIKOLAYEVICH BUGAYEV |