Amid disordered rumple of corner bed lies, Sodden in stench of drink, a man Who clutches a cudgel used in drunken rage Of the shrinking acceptance on the body Of the woman with slum's tolerance Of sorrow, brutal and frequent. How dear to my heart are the memories of yesteryear. Those gone now still live as if they were near. The house in the valley in that small town. Stands yet, its white turned gray and still down That bucket in the well, waiting for a pull, To pull up waters drunk in dippers full.
Pastures stand beyond their grasses high and green.
Summer's heat shimmers with hazy sheen And the ancient oak spreads its branches wide While the munching cows beneath it hide As their glossy flanks rise above swollen udders. A hired boy lies asleep and nothing deters His pleasant dreams and the sweat on cooling brow. Oh, how sweetly plain and domestic it seems now. I would that some magic restore me to those years When as a small girl I to these delights forgot fears Of the garter snake crawling timidly to the haystack, Leaving me with lifted rake poised for an attack. Chickens with their broods clucked nervously Pecking at their feed scattered previously.