Poem by Henry 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.

1. Let Such Pure Hate Still Underprop
2. On Fields Oer Which the Reaper's Hand Has Passd
3. What's the Railroad to Me?
4. The Inward Morning
5. Indeed Indeed, I Cannot Tell

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