Poetry Archives

Each sunny day upon my way
          A goat I pass;
He has a beard of silver grey,
          A bell of brass.
And all the while I am in sight
          He seems to muse,
And stares at me with all his might
          And chews and chews.

Upon the hill so thymy sweet
          With joy of Spring,
He hails me with a tiny bleat
          Of welcoming.
Though half the globe is drenched with blood
          And cities flare,
Contentedly he chews the cud
          And does not care.

Oh gentle friend, I know not what
          Your age may be,
But of my years I’d give the lot
          Yet left to me,
To chew a thistle and not choke,
          But bright of eye
Gaze at the old world-weary bloke
          Who hobbles by.

Alas! though bards make verse sublime,
          And lines to quote,
It takes a fool like me to rhyme
          About a goat.