Wednesday, October 2, 2013

"Roasting Corn" Poem

By Mrs. Clara Doty Bates.

A faint blue cloud of smoke
Creeps up the golden air:
It must be the wandering gypsy folk
Have lighted a fire there.

No doubt they have covered vans,
And ponies shaggy and lean,
Which they will tether with dusky hands
Along the wayside green.

And the bells on their bridles hung
Will tinkle idly sweet,
With the chatter of children, rude of tongue
And bare of feet --

While, with grimy tents spread out,
Their elders lazily
Wait for the steam of the kettle-spout
To burn the time for tea.

Though surely I can get
But whiffs of the camp-fire smoke,
And though I know they are vagrants, yet
I will visit these gypsy folk.

Well, now! and is this Jack?
This Gold-locks? and this Ted?
With clothes and fingers a smutty black
And cheeks a burning red--

So hungry and forlorn,
In grandpa's ample house,
That you must pilfer an ear of corn
And nibble it like a mouse?

Will I have some? The smell
Is of itself a treat.
I'll trust the boys and girls to tell
When things are good to eat!

(All poetry on this blog is in the public domain folks.)

No comments:

Post a Comment