WHEN Molly smiles beneath her cow, I feel my heart--I can't tell how; When Molly is on Sunday dressed, On Sundays I can take no rest. What can I do? on worky days I leave my work on her to gaze. What shall I say? At sermons, I Forget the text when Molly 's by. Good master curate, teach me how To mind your preaching and my plough: And if for this you'll raise a spell, A good fat goose shall thank you well. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SAPPHIC SUICIDE NOTE by JAMES GALVIN MY BOY by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON MARTHA WASHINGTON by SIDNEY LANIER CRITIC AND POET by EMMA LAZARUS THE FEAST OF LIGHTS by EMMA LAZARUS AQUATINT FRAMED IN GOLD by AMY LOWELL |