The Milking Time

When in thought I turn to my boyhood years,
And their joys and pleasures manifold,
The days I knew on the old home farm
Are the leaves of a volume bound in gold.

One picture I am sure will abide with me
To the very end, ‘tis a quiet scene --
When the cows come home from the pasture field,
As the sun goes down where the woods are green.

And I watch them file through the dusty lane
To the heavy high gate - barred gate ahead,
Where the tall posts lean like the Pisa tower,
Brindle and Blossom and Dolly and Red.

They come from the clover, lush and green
That sprinkled with blossoms, red and white,
Their coats are aglow with the satiny glint
Of the royal robe in the fading light.

The music of meadow lark, robin, and wren
Has greeted them merrily all the day long,
Yet has given them never a rapturous thrill
As I have been thrilled by a single sweet song.

But chewing the cud of a meek content
They pause at the last in their stately tread,
And I let them in at the barn yard gate
Brindle and Blossom and Dolly and Red.

‘Tis the milking time, all sounds are hushed
Save the rhythmic beat of the turn white streams,
In the shiny pail till above its brim,
A foamy crest like a snow drift gleams.

Then the night draws near and the stars come out
In the twilight’s tender interlude,
And the sorrowful song of the whip-poor-will
Is heard in the depths of the echoing wood.

We carry the milk to the cool spring house
And later lilliput lad in his bed,
Sees custards and creams on parade in his dreams
With Brindle and Blossom, and Dolly and Red.