by John Vance Cheney
The maples look down with bright eyes in their leaves,
The clear drops drip from the swallow-built eaves,
The pond is all dimples from shore to shore,
And the miller smiles back from his place in the door.
Slow mist from the mountain comes drifting down,
The houses show fainter afar in the town,
The gust sweeps up, dies away again,
Then loud and fast the rap-tap of the rain.
Old Nancy looks soberly out from her stall,
The drowsy cows—do they chew at all?
The old farm barn is so dusk and still
The spiders sleep on the window-sill.
Last updated January 14, 2019