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Dreamy, John B. Colwell, in English Clear filters

DreamyJohn B. Colwell

Clouds

Clouds, many clouds Hanging high in the sky, Drifting so softly And quietly by. Tiny clouds, fleecy, And downy, and white, Blotches of snow In summer sunlight. Silver clouds, gray In the afternoon sun ; Tableland, plain, And mountain in one; Rocks piled, and caverns, And rivers that wind Down to a quiet sea, All intertwined.Cliffs on horizon
DreamyJohn B. Colwell

Transmigration

Before the window of a shop With fishing tackle on display, I stop To view the rods, hooks, lines and reels; The painted lures ; the canvas creels ; And landing net As yet unwet; To me each shining article appeals. But, as I gaze, these disappear. Within the window, showing clear, I see some pines — a rocky shore — A little baylet I adore — A fishing boat E'en now afloat, While wavelets rock it aft and fore! Why should I care though wind be chill? My heart within, is warm with thrill.
DreamyJohn B. Colwell

The Buckeye Trail

Give ear, good people, to my tale, Forget your present strait — We'll take a winding gravel trail Back to the Buckeye State. And there, atop the highest hill We'll view the scene outspread — The valley fair, the stream, the mill, The school house painted red. A wood that mounts the hillside rise — With trees now gaunt and bare, Yet, beautiful to knowing eyes, To homesick eyes, how fair! Beyond the wood, in pasture brown, The gentle sheep repose Upon the ground that slopes adown — They close their eyes and doze.
DreamyJohn B. Colwell

Fishin' Days Are Gone

The leaves have fallen, and the limbs are bare, The cricket's chirp is stilled along the shore; Above, the lustrous crow sails in the chilly air; Below, the frisky squirrel hunts his winter store. Before me lies the creek I know so well — Each hole, its every pile of drift, its snags — Just here I caught that two pound "cat" ! (I love to dwell Upon the mem'ries of the days I made GOOD bags). But, now the leaves are gone and limbs are bare, And icy needles skirt the water's edge. Oh, speed the time of dogwood bloom, of odors rare, When green comes once again to osage hedge!

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