Nor birds that pipe from border brush across
the yellow grass.

No cow-bells honk from upland fields, no sunset
thrushes call
To swarthy, bare-limbed harvesters beyond
the stubble roads;
But flanges grind on frosted steel, the weary
snow-picks fall,
And twisted, toiling backs are bent to pile the
bitter loads.

No shouting from the intervales, no singing from
the hill,
No scent of trodden tansy weeds among the
golden grain----,
Only the silent, cringing forms beneath the
aching chill.
Only the hungry eyes of want in haggard
cheeks of pain.




Flowers of the Sky

The snow was four feet deep beyond my door.
(I never knew the cold so cruel before.)
The frost was white as death, and in the wood
Shattered the aching aisles of solitude.