Henry David Thoreau
They Who Prepare My Evening Meal Below - Poem by Henry David Thoreau
They who prepare my evening meal below
Carelessly hit the kettle as they go
With tongs or shovel,
And ringing round and round,
Out of this hovel
It makes an eastern temple by the sound.
At first I thought a cow bell right at hand
Mid birches sounded o'er the open land,
Where I plucked flowers
Many years ago,
Spending midsummer hours
With such secure delight they hardly seemed to flow.
Comments about They Who Prepare My Evening Meal Below by Henry David Thoreau
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Read poems about / on: flower