Share:
  Guess poet | Poets | Poets timeline | Isles | Contacts

Robert W Service - Milking TimeRobert W Service - Milking Time
Work rating: Low


There`s a drip of honeysuckle in the deep green lane; There`s old Martin jogging homeward on his worn old wain; There are cherry petals falling, and a cuckoo calling, calling, And a score of larks (God bless `em) . . . but it`s all pain, pain. For you see I am not really there at all, not at all; For you see I`m in the trenches where the crump-crumps fall; And the bits o` shells are screaming and it`s only blessed dreaming That in fancy I am seeming back in old Saint Pol. Oh I`ve thought of it so often since I`ve come down here; And I never dreamt that any place could be so dear; The silvered whinstone houses, and the rosy men in blouses, And the kindly, white-capped women with their eyes spring-clear. And mother`s sitting knitting where her roses climb, And the angelus is calling with a soft, soft chime, And the sea-wind comes caressing, and the light`s a golden blessing, And Yvonne, Yvonne is guessing that it`s milking time. Oh it`s Sunday, for she`s wearing of her broidered gown; And she draws the pasture pickets and the cows come down; And their feet are powdered yellow, and their voices honey-mellow, And they bring a scent of clover, and their eyes are brown. And Yvonne is dreaming after, but her eyes are blue; And her lips are made for laughter, and her white teeth too; And her mouth is like a cherry, and a dimple mocking merry Is lurking in the very cheek she turns to you. So I walk beside her kindly, and she laughs at me; And I heap her arms with lilac from the lilac tree; And a golden light is welling, and a golden peace is dwelling, And a thousand birds are telling how it`s good to be. And what are pouting lips for if they can`t be kissed? And I`ve filled her arms with blossom so she can`t resist; And the cows are sadly straying, and her mother must be saying That Yvonne is long delaying . . . God! How close that missed. A nice polite reminder that the Boche are nigh; That we`re here to fight like devils, and if need-be die; That from kissing pretty wenches to the frantic firing-benches Of the battered, tattered trenches is a far, far cry. Yet still I`m sitting dreaming in the glare and grime; And once again I`m hearing of them church-bells chime; And how I wonder whether in the golden summer weather We will fetch the cows together when it`s milking time. . . .         (English voice, months later): "Ow Bill! A rottin` Frenchy. Whew! `E ain`t `arf prime."
Source

The script ran 0.002 seconds.