Poems


Haying the Beasts

 
I wrest high summer out of the stack,
Cram full, hot summer into the rack;
And, whether the frost be white or black,
      We always have sweet summer.

We and the horse and goats and sheep
Know winter is but a shallow sleep
When we nose deep in such fragrant keep
      That sings to us of the summer.

So here's to winter with all its wiles;
With its bitter blasts and icy guiles:
Here in the byre we beasts wear smiles -
      We have fresh, sweet hay of summer.