File:Cactus, aloe, spiked agavi and great palms in Italy, c. 1913.jpg

Identifier: shrinesoldnewoth00farmuoft (find matches)
Title: Shrines old and new, and other poems
Year: 1913 (1910s)
Authors: Farmer, Thomas Devey Jermyn
Subjects:
Publisher: Toronto W. Briggs
Contributing Library: Robarts - University of Toronto
Digitizing Sponsor: MSN

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ES OLD AND NEW VI. Now do the venturous wanderers of the nightShrink from thy glance, O Hght-reveaHng Morn.The bhnd and spooky bat a sudden leaveDoth take, and maketh thee his resting-time.The solemn owl, Minervas favorite,Whose ghostly hoot disturbs the midnight still,While prowling near the barnyard for his prey.Or troubled by the moonbeams through the woods,Now finds his sanctury in the jungle dense;And the soft-noted, gentle whip-poor-will.That favorite cheerer of the Summers dark,Seeketh his wonted forest hiding-place.And Philomela shuns the haunts of men. VII. Now Chanticleer, rude wakener of repose, Sends challenge to his rival far away. Who quick responds, and soon the air is filld With many challenges destined to end In nothing, like the vanities of men. And hark! the iron horse plunging along With precious load of men and merchandise At lightning speed, gives forth its warning shriek, Shriller than in the busy noontide hour. More weird methinks than in the dead of night. 204
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VM a V > ;-( tn b/) a ~ ■^ u o W ^ > o ^ . M) <C/i TO MORNING And now the slumbering swain, these warnings heard,Bestirs himself and seeks his daily toil. VIII. The air is laden with the gladdened voiceOf the awakening birds, and with the scentOf ripening orchards dripping with the dew.And with th aroma of milk-laden kine.But crouching still in sheltered cove or nookAre sheep and swine and little calves, all loathTo stir until the sunshines genial warmthHath chased the damp and chill of night away.And frogs are helpless, still beneath the weightOf the wet swale, and grasshopper and beeWith sodden wing are fearful yet to temptFate on their wanderings over field and wood. IX. What part of earths revolving day than theeIn the four seasons gladder? Doth not SpringThe morning of the year more softly breatheHer daintiest odors with thy opening rays?Were sweltering blasts of summers sun not cooldBy thy refreshing breath, could they be borne ?And in the Indian summers halcyon hours

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