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October on the Sheep Range There ain't no leaves to turn to gold— There ain't a tree in sight— In other ways the herder's told October's come, all right. Jest like ten thousand souls, all lost, The wind howls—ain't it nice!— The water-hole is froze acrost With crinkly-crackly ice. The sheep bed down before the sun Has hit the rim of hills; The prairie wolves are on the run To make their nightly kills. But kyards are sayin', "Solitaire," The bacon's fryin' prime; The old sheep wagon's free from care In late October time. Arthur Chapman's other poems:
Распечатать (Print) Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1264 |
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