Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. (1833–1908). An American Anthology, 1787–1900. 1900.
By Frederic LawrenceKnowles1608 A Pasture
R
It bears upon its churlish face
No sign of beauty, art, or grace;
Not here the silvery coverts glow
That April and the angler know.
Smooth-resting on its mosses sleek,
Like loving lips upon a cheek
Soft as the face of maid or child,—
Just boulders, helter-skelter piled.
These acres with the stumps and stocks
Which should be trees, with rude, gray rocks;
Over these humps and hollows browse,
Daily, the awkward, shambling cows.
Of crazy, granite stones, and there
A rotten pine-trunk, brown and bare,
A mass of huge brakes, rank and tall,—
The burning blue sky over all.
The noisy markets know no such,—
So ripe they tumble when you touch;
Long, taper—rarer wines they waste
Than ever town-bred topers taste.
From lawns where lazy hammocks swing,
And seen such orioles on the wing?
Such flames of song that flashed and fled?
Well, maybe—I ’m not city-bred.