THE BABY GOAT
Four alders guard a bridge of planksAnd waveless waters filmed with brown,A rugged lawn’s uneven banksSlope gently down,And there, still chafing at the chainThat girds his slim pathetic throat,They’ve picketed our friend again—The Baby Goat.Treading alone the watered vale,Betsey and I, beside the marshOften we linger to bewailHis durance harsh;What plaints allure my baby’s feet,What tethered struggles claim her sighs,What shrill protestant whinnies greetHer long good-byes.Once we repassed the lonely groundBelow the alders where he feedsAnd spied his stunted horns girt roundWith flow’ring weeds,Two merry wenches and a childCaressed his grey ill-fitting coatAnd, lolling in the sedge, beguiledThe Baby Goat.Now, for long days companionless,His soft blunt nose, his agate eyes,His raised remonstrant brows expressThe sad surpriseWherewith the desolate green wasteO’erloads his heart who at the edgeOf stagnant waters kneels to tasteThe thankless sedge.His Mother is his chiefest lackWho in some heathy upland placeTidied his sturdy socks of blackAnd licked his face;He turns to see us saunter byThe level highway hand-in-hand—I think the Baby Goat knows whyWe understand.
Four alders guard a bridge of planksAnd waveless waters filmed with brown,A rugged lawn’s uneven banksSlope gently down,And there, still chafing at the chainThat girds his slim pathetic throat,They’ve picketed our friend again—The Baby Goat.Treading alone the watered vale,Betsey and I, beside the marshOften we linger to bewailHis durance harsh;What plaints allure my baby’s feet,What tethered struggles claim her sighs,What shrill protestant whinnies greetHer long good-byes.Once we repassed the lonely groundBelow the alders where he feedsAnd spied his stunted horns girt roundWith flow’ring weeds,Two merry wenches and a childCaressed his grey ill-fitting coatAnd, lolling in the sedge, beguiledThe Baby Goat.Now, for long days companionless,His soft blunt nose, his agate eyes,His raised remonstrant brows expressThe sad surpriseWherewith the desolate green wasteO’erloads his heart who at the edgeOf stagnant waters kneels to tasteThe thankless sedge.His Mother is his chiefest lackWho in some heathy upland placeTidied his sturdy socks of blackAnd licked his face;He turns to see us saunter byThe level highway hand-in-hand—I think the Baby Goat knows whyWe understand.
Four alders guard a bridge of planksAnd waveless waters filmed with brown,A rugged lawn’s uneven banksSlope gently down,And there, still chafing at the chainThat girds his slim pathetic throat,They’ve picketed our friend again—The Baby Goat.
Treading alone the watered vale,Betsey and I, beside the marshOften we linger to bewailHis durance harsh;What plaints allure my baby’s feet,What tethered struggles claim her sighs,What shrill protestant whinnies greetHer long good-byes.
Once we repassed the lonely groundBelow the alders where he feedsAnd spied his stunted horns girt roundWith flow’ring weeds,Two merry wenches and a childCaressed his grey ill-fitting coatAnd, lolling in the sedge, beguiledThe Baby Goat.
Now, for long days companionless,His soft blunt nose, his agate eyes,His raised remonstrant brows expressThe sad surpriseWherewith the desolate green wasteO’erloads his heart who at the edgeOf stagnant waters kneels to tasteThe thankless sedge.
His Mother is his chiefest lackWho in some heathy upland placeTidied his sturdy socks of blackAnd licked his face;He turns to see us saunter byThe level highway hand-in-hand—I think the Baby Goat knows whyWe understand.