Dorothy M. Schreiber
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The Eternal Bivouac
How dear to my heart are the memories of yesteryear.
Those gone now still live as if they were near.
The house in the valley in that small town.
Stands yet, its white turned gray and still down
That bucket in the well, waiting for a pull,
To pull up waters drunk in dippers full.
Pastures stand beyond their grasses high and green.
Summer's heat shimmers with hazy sheen
And the ancient oak spreads its branches wide
While the munching cows beneath it hide
As their glossy flanks rise above swollen udders.
A hired boy lies asleep and nothing deters