On Miller's Pond
Hawthorne, old Emerson, Henry and I
Spent last Sunday, after church, skating,
Taking the air, stretching our limbs.
Thoreau, being the sport that he is, showed off
His skill—pirouetting and leaping, long arms
Windmilling; Waldo, bent at the waist,
Cut a fine figure, but cautious, befitting his age,
While Nathaniel and I circled the pond
In pleasant repartee; a flask set by a convenient
Snowbank comforted us from the chill,
A bit of spirit spreads a satisfactory glow
Throughout the bones and down to the toes.
Melville came late, the young pup, eager to please,
And with little white puffs from his pipe
Joined in the fun. A handsome group, we,
I’ll allow, on the clear ice, in the midst of the hills,
In the lee of the pines, low sun cutting shadows,
A nip in the air, and the conversation was good.
Last line after, "and the craic was good"
Poetry by jim
Read 328 times
Written on 2017-12-04 at 14:22
Save as a bookmark (requires login)
Write a comment (requires login)
Send as email