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Bacchanalia

Rating: 2.8

I

The evening comes, the fields are still.
The tinkle of the thirsty rill,
Unheard all day, ascends again;
Deserted is the half-mown plain,
Silent the swaths! the ringing wain,
The mower's cry, the dog's alarms,
All housed within the sleeping farms!
The business of the day is done,

The last-left haymaker is gone.
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COMMENTS OF THE POEM
Edward Kofi Louis 24 October 2015

Nice work with the muse of life, nature and art!

0 0 Reply
Susan Williams 24 October 2015

Stillness versus excess. Sooner or later, the young people and their new ideas will leave the field, and their time on the stage will end. No matter what man wants, time will move on and the world will no longer be his orchard. These things are unchanging- an earthly definition of immortality.

30 0 Reply
Tom Cooke 31 January 2009

bob dylan should make this a song!

1 1 Reply

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