Page:Poems Kennedy.djvu/38

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Not e'en the Bobolinks were gay,
And shells had lost their minstrelsy.
And all my heart cried out for you,
For, ah, my sweet, at last I knew
Alone, one may not find the clew
Where runs the road to Arcady!


THE COUNTRY ROAD
WHITE in the sunshine, gray in the shade,
  Like an out-spun thread of fate,
It cleaves the meadows and slips away
  Where the hills in ambush wait,
Mounting the slopes with a sure up-lift,
  Dipping to valleys below,
And where it begins and where is the end
  There's never an eye may know.

Beside it straggles an age-gray fence
  With gaps for the cows to pass,
At the powdered hem wild violets bind
  The dust to the emerald grass.
Above, like weaving shuttles a-wing
  The wrens and the blue-birds fly,
And higher still the vultures sail,
  Black specks in the azure sky.

Here the bare-foot boys go racing past,
  The dust flung back like foam
There the slow-hoofed oxen, heads a-swing,
  Draw the hay-sweet wagons home.

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