24.12.2008, 14:44
An Iowa Homestead
It looks as follows, sketched in rustic rhyme:
A streak of English ivy spires spick
Against the fireplace chimney's brownish brick
And weatherboards beclouded by the clime.
The gravel path between the teeming thyme
Rounds through the gate that closes with a click;
A tuft of berries, bearing, thorny, thick,
Grows near a well and windlass green with grime.
Within the small veranda's shifting shade
A grandmamma with glasses reads and rocks;
A barefoot boy is spatting with his spade
To smooth a rain-washed bed of flowering phlox;
Two moths have traveled through the glinting glade,
And camped upon a hedge of hollyhocks.
It looks as follows, sketched in rustic rhyme:
A streak of English ivy spires spick
Against the fireplace chimney's brownish brick
And weatherboards beclouded by the clime.
The gravel path between the teeming thyme
Rounds through the gate that closes with a click;
A tuft of berries, bearing, thorny, thick,
Grows near a well and windlass green with grime.
Within the small veranda's shifting shade
A grandmamma with glasses reads and rocks;
A barefoot boy is spatting with his spade
To smooth a rain-washed bed of flowering phlox;
Two moths have traveled through the glinting glade,
And camped upon a hedge of hollyhocks.