The Cow in Apple Time
                                      
          SOMETHING inspires the only cow of late
          To make no more of a wall than an open gate,
          And think no more of wall-builders than fools.
          Her face is flecked with pomace and she drools
          A cider syrup. Having tasted fruit,
          She scores a pasture withering to the root.
          She runs from tree to tree where lie and sweeten
          The windfalls spiked with stubble and worm-eaten.
          She leaves them bitten when she has to fly.
          She bellows on a knoll against the sky.
          Her udder shrivels and the milk goes dry.
          
     _________________________________________________________________
                                      
                 [1]Frost, Robert. 1920. Three Volumes, &c.