The Wayside Hen

The smooth, free rush in the winey breeze,
 * By open field and by tangled brake,

By curving roads where the stately trees
 * Are mirrored deep in the placid lake,

Past town and village, by farm and stream,
 * Through peaceful valley and rugged glen,

Is life that rivals a poet’s dream—
 * Till one encounters the wayside hen!

Her eyes are blind to the swift machine,
 * Her ears are deaf to the purr of wheels,

So she continues to prink and preen
 * While close behind her the monster steals;

Its warning note is a brazen goad
 * That brings her up with a startled screech

And sends her fluttering down the road
 * To get well out of its fearful reach.

She sets the pace in a straightaway,
 * But though she flounders with might and main

Her heart grows heavy with deep dismay
 * To find her efforts are all in vain;

And so, at last, when her powers fail,
 * She veers around in her frantic stride—

And half the feathers that once were tail
 * Are scattered far through countryside!