Wednesday, January 20, 2010

In Wickersham did Mr. Jones
A stately mini-farm decree: 
Where trains along the steel tracks ran
Twice daily by the normal plan
Below the sunless scree. 
There, one green acre of fertile ground
with woven wire was girdled round:
And there were gardens bright with sinuous weeds,
where blossomed even an apple-bearing tree:
And here were forests logged upon the hills, 
Enfolding riding spots midst greenery.

But oh! That deep romantic bray which echoed
Across the green hills all fir and cedar covered!
A merry voice! As pretty and enchanting
As e'er beneath a waning moon was sounded
By horse or woman or donkey or another. 
So near this farmlet, with ceaseless gorgeous braying,
The neighbor's mule with his voice begged for haying, 
A mighty voice the wife of Mr. Jones heard,
and which compelled her to say, "dear, let's grow our herd."
And so began in intermittent bursts
huge daydreams of obtaining that half-horse
And o'er several years the FarmWife said 
unto her neighbor, "I would buy your steed."
Two years of wondering and looking,
Of admiring and stroking 
and of intermittent rides by neighbor's favor 
Turned into one most happy day when 
Fenway came unto the Farmlet as no stranger.
Beside the tracks, above the gravelled scree,
A mule moved two doors down to a new family. 

The shadows of the ears of Fenway
Fall now upon the Farmlet grounds
Where now resounds the brash beloved bray
of a mule so oft' admired that 
he is a miracle of coveted companionship,
A sunny pleasant chap with lovely voice!

A damsel with two little ears 
In a vision I once saw:
It was a quarter horse mare,
and beside her a brown mule foal played,
braying of sweet grasses.
I have revived within me
That vision and that foal,
And such deep delight it wins me
That with ears so fine and long,
I would be that colt all grown mature,
That handsome mule! That mule so nice!
And all who hear can see me here, 
And all can cry, "Those ears! Those ears!"
My warm brown eyes, my shining hair.
Place a saddle on me thus,
And close your eyes to any dread,
For I am Fenway Bartholomule
And we will ride through Paradise.

1 comment:

  1. Bravo! Fenway, you're a poet though you may not know it, your ears show it-they're Longfellows!


Thanks in Advance for Your Mulish Opinion!