The Old Barn
D
ESERTED by the horses and the cows,
Emptied of grindstone, scythe, and sagging plows,
The old barn leans a bit as aged things do.
The doors stand open, and the wind blows through,
Redolent with odors from old fields,
Of the breath of cattle; and the haymow yields
The musty scent of mice and rotted hay.
But here is one thing much alive today:
The swallows with their wing-tips filled with light,
Busy and earnest in their circling flight,
Hastening with mud to daub their nests,
Shaping them to wings and sloping breasts,
Building new stucco houses, gray and brown,
Upon a site, too apt to tumble down.
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