The Barn Poem by Ralph Wainscott
The Barn
The beauty of a barn,
With high graceful eaves,
Can enhance any setting,
With enchantment it weaves.
Weather built of wood,
Or built of stone.
The barn is a monarch,
Even standing alone.
When it gets old
And no longer in use.
It stands there stately,
While suffering abuse.
To think of a future,
With no barns to be found.
The loss to manking,
Would clearly be profound.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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8/28/2026 5:56:13 PM # rel_20260827T145718Z_a0f1bd3
