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Lizette Woodworth Reese
Three sycamores down the road,
High, blotched, shaken in the cold
A field; cut in its grass,
A pool, like small, wild gold.
And this was all I saw.
As you came by with me
A day last week. Now you are dead.
What is it that I see?
Three sycamores down the road.
High, blotched, shaken in the cold;
A field; cut in its grass,
A pool, like small, wild gold.
Through the sheltering sycamores
Blows the wild wind from the shores,
And the nations of the wheat
Bow and sway before his feet.
Where the far fields fade, and die
In the shining of the sky,
Right across the spacious plain
He is gone, and back again.
He will ruffle, as they browse,
Those old meadow-gods, the cows;
He will toss, like prancing steeds,
All the beanfields and the reeds,
Whilst the scattered clouds on high
Speed like galleons through the sky.
We alone are safe indoors,
Sheltered by the sycamores.