Poetry Archives

I heard an old farm-wife,
 Selling some barley,
Mingle her life with life
 And the name “Charley”.

Saying, “The crop’s all in,
 We’re about through now;
Long nights will soon begin,
 We’re just us two now.

Twelve bushels at sixty cents,
 It’s all I carried—
He sickened making fence;
 He was to be married—

It feels like frost was near—
 His hair was curly.
The spring was late that year,
 But the harvest early.”