Oblivion

        Green moss will creep
        Along the shady graves where we shall sleep.

        Each year will bring
        Another brood of birds to nest and sing.

        At dawn will go
        New ploughmen to the fields we used to know.

        Night will call home
        The hunter from the hills we loved to roam.

        She will not ask,
        The milkmaid, singing softly at her task,

        Nor will she care
        To know if I were brave or you were fair.

        No one will think
        What chalice life had offered us to drink,

        When from our clay
        The sun comes back to kiss the snow away.

John Charles McNeill

John Charles McNeill was a prominent American poet known for his works that vividly depicted the landscapes and spirit of North Carolina. Born on July 26, 1874, in Wagram, North Carolina, he won acclaim with his book 'Songs Merry and Sad,' which won the Patterson Cup in 1905. His poetry primarily reflects rural life and Southern traditions. Sadly, McNeill's promising career was cut short when he died on October 17, 1907, at the young age of 33.

John Charles McNeill

Folk Song

John Charles McNeill, Simple Poetry

M. W. Ransom

John Charles McNeill, Simple Poetry

Harvest

John Charles McNeill, Simple Poetry

Pardon Time

John Charles McNeill, Simple Poetry

English

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Away Down Home

        'T will not be long before they hear
            The bullbat on the hill,
        And in the valley through the dusk
            The pastoral whippoorwill.
        A few more friendly suns will call
            The bluets through the loam
        And star the lanes with buttercups
                Away down home.

        "Knee-deep!" from reedy places
            Will sing the river frogs.
        The terrapins will sun themselves
            On all the jutting logs.
        The angler's cautious oar will leave
            A trail of drifting foam
        Along the shady currents
                Away down home.

        The mocking-bird will feel again
            The glory of his wings,
        And wanton through the balmy air

John Charles McNeill

Folk Song

        When merry milkmaids to their cattle call
            At evenfall
            And voices range
        Loud through the gloam from grange to quiet grange,

        Wild waif-songs from long distant lands and loves,
            Like migrant doves,
            Wake and give wing
        To passion dust-dumb lips were wont to sing.

        The new still holds the old moon in her arms;
            The ancient charms
            Of dew and dusk
        Still lure her nomad odors from the musk,

        And, at each day's millennial eclipse,
            On new men's lips,
            Some old song starts,
        Made of the music of millennial hearts,

        Whereto one listens as from long ago
            And learns to know

John Charles McNeill

I'll Dream Upon The Days To Come

I'll lay me down on the green sward,
Mid yellowcups and speedwell blue,
And pay the world no more regard,
But be to Nature leal and true.
Who break the peace of hapless man
But they who Truth and Nature wrong?
I'll hear no more of evil's plan,
But live with Nature and her song.

Where Nature's lights and shades are green,
Where Nature's place is strewn with flowers.
Where strife and care are never seen,
There I'll retire to happy hours,
And stretch my body on the green,
And sleep among the flowers in bloom,
By eyes of malice seldom seen,
And dream upon the days to come.

I'll lay me by the forest green,
I'll lay me on the pleasant grass;
My life shall pass away unseen;
I'll be no more the man I was.
The tawny bee upon the flower,<...

John Clare

Home Songs

        The little loves and sorrows are my song:
            The leafy lanes and birthsteads of my sires,
            Where memory broods by winter's evening fires
        O'er oft-told joys, and ghosts of ancient wrong;
        The little cares and carols that belong
            To home-hearts, and old rustic lutes and lyres,
            And spreading acres, where calm-eyed desires
        Wake with the dawn, unfevered, fair, and strong.

        If words of mine might lull the bairn to sleep,
            And tell the meaning in a mother's eyes;
        Might counsel love, and teach their eyes to weep
            Who, o'er their dead, question unanswering skies,
        More worth than legions in the dust of strife,
        Time, looking back at last, should count my ...

John Charles McNeill

Harvest

        Cows in the stall and sheep in the fold;
        Clouds in the west, deep crimson and gold;
            A heron's far flight to a roost somewhere;
            The twitter of killdees keen in the air;
        The noise of a wagon that jolts through the gloam
            On the last load home.

        There are lights in the windows; a blue spire of smoke
        Climbs from the grange grove of elm and oak.
            The smell of the Earth, where the night pours to her
            Its dewy libation, is sweeter than myrrh,
        And an incense to Toil is the smell of the loam
            On the last load home.

John Charles McNeill

October

        The thought of old, dear things is in thine eyes,
        O, month of memories!
        Musing on days thine heart hath sorrow of,
        Old joy, dead hope, dear love,

        I see thee stand where all thy sisters meet
        To cast down at thy feet
        The garnered largess of the fruitful year,
        And on thy cheek a tear.

        Thy glory flames in every blade and leaf
        To blind the eyes of grief;
        Thy vineyards and thine orchards bend with fruit
        That sorrow may be mute;

        A hectic splendor lights thy days to sleep,
        Ere the gray dusk may creep
        Sober and sad along thy dusty ways,
        Like a lone nun, who prays;

        High and faint-heard thy passing migrant calls;<...

John Charles McNeill