With poems
And with her curly golden hair
She sat with poems there
Reading each one aloud as though reciting to the breeze
Which carried them round and round before repeating them to me
Each poem more poetic than the last
And energetic too, with every word my heart was beating faster than before
And then once more, she sighed
No doubt thinking of her Prince
For whom she longed to be a bride
And I, a farmer’s son
Who tends the field the whole day through and yet my work is never done
Beside this moment spent listening to poems
Their meanings lent to me
And though this moment I am free
My work soon summons me to tend the fields once more
And I must ignore the tired and the sore upon my feet
And forget the sweet poetic maiden fair
With curly golden hair
Who sat with poems there
She sat with poems there
Reading each one aloud as though reciting to the breeze
Which carried them round and round before repeating them to me
Each poem more poetic than the last
And energetic too, with every word my heart was beating faster than before
And then once more, she sighed
No doubt thinking of her Prince
For whom she longed to be a bride
And I, a farmer’s son
Who tends the field the whole day through and yet my work is never done
Beside this moment spent listening to poems
Their meanings lent to me
And though this moment I am free
My work soon summons me to tend the fields once more
And I must ignore the tired and the sore upon my feet
And forget the sweet poetic maiden fair
With curly golden hair
Who sat with poems there