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User Rating:
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8.5
/10
(2 votes)
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He travels after a winter sun,
Urging the cattle along a cold red road,
Calling to them, a voice they know,
He drives his beasts above Cabra.
The voice tells them home is warm.
They moo and make brute music with their hoofs.
He drives them with a flowering branch before him,
Smoke pluming their foreheads.
Boor, bond of the herd,
Tonight stretch full by the fire!
I bleed by the black stream
For my torn bough!
James Joyce
| Submitted Date |
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Friday, January 03, 2003 |
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Read poems about / on: winter, music, red, fire, home, sun, travel, flower
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