Read online or download a free book: The Poems And Plays Of John Masefield Volume 1
Publisher: TheClassics.us (12 Sept. 2013)
By: John Masefield (Author)
Book format: pdf doc docx mobi djvu epub ibooks (*An electronic version of a printed book that can be read on a computer or handheld device designed specifically for this purpose.)
This historic book may have numerous typos and missing text. Purchasers can usually download a free scanned copy of the original book (without typos) from the publisher. Not indexed. Not illustrated. 1918 edition. Excerpt: ... THE DAFFODIL FIELDS I Between the barren pasture and the wood There is a patch of poultry-stricken grass, Where, in old time, Ryemeadows': Farmhouse stood, And human fate brought tragic things to pass. A spring comes bubbling up there, cold as glass, It bubbles down, crusting the leaves with lime, Babbling the self-same song that it has sung through time. Ducks gobble at the selvage of the brook, But still it slips away, the cold hill-spring, Past the Ryemeadows': lonely woodland nook Where many a stubble gray-goose preens her wing, On, by the woodland side. You hear it sing Past the lone copse where poachers set their wires, Past the green hill once grim with sacrificial fires. Another water joins it: then it turns, Runs through the Ponton Wood, still turning west, Past foxgloves, Canterbury bells, and ferns, And many a blackbird':s, many a thrush':s nest: The cattle tread it there: then, with a zest It sparkles out, babbling its pretty chatter Through Foxholes Farm, where it gives white-faced cattle water. Under the road it runs, and now it slips Past the great ploughland, babbling, drop and linn, To the moss':d stumps of elm trees which it lips, And blackberry-bramble-trails where eddies spin. Then, on its left, some short-grassed fields begin, Red-clayed and pleasant, which the young spring fills With the never-quiet joy of dancing daffodils. There are three fields where daffodils are found: The grass is dotted blue-gray with their leaves: Their nodding beauty shakes along the ground Up to a fir-clump shutting out the eaves Of an old farm where always the wind grieves High in the fir boughs, moaning: people call This farm The Roughs, but some call it the Poor Maid':s Hall. There, when the first green shoots of tender corn Show on the...
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