Harden, The Homestead, 2024
Arrives the dusty dirges' drone ...
When thistle-blows do lightly floatAbout the pasture-height,And shrills the hawk a parting note,And creeps the frost at night,Then hilly ho! though singing so,And whistle as I may,There comes again the old heart painThrough all the livelong day.In high wind creaks the leafless treeAnd nods the fading fern;The knolls are dun as snow-clouds be,And cold the sun does burn.Then ho, hollo! though calling so,I cannot keep it down;The tears arise unto my eyes,And thoughts are chill and brown.Far in the cedars' dusky stoles,Where the sere ground-vine weaves,The partridge drums funereal rollsAbove the fallen leaves.And hip, hip, ho! though cheering so,It stills no whit the pain;For drip, drip, drip, from bare-branch tip,I hear the year's last rain.So drive the cold cows from the hill,And call the wet sheep in;And let their stamping clatter fillThe barn with warming din.And ho, folk, ho! though it be soThat we no more may roam,We still will find a cheerful mindAround the fire at home!C.L. Cleaveland
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Even though it's burned in my memory, thanks for the view, Kurt.
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