FEUD
A MILE of lane, — hedged high with ironweeds And dying daisies, — white with sun, that leads Downward into a wood; through which a stream Steals like a shadow; over which is laid A bridge of logs, worn deep by many a team, Sunk in the tangled shade.
Far off a wood-dove lifts its lonely cry; And in the sleepy silver of the sky A gray hawk wheels no larger than a hand.—From point to point the road grows worse and worse, Until that place is reached where all the land Seems burdened with some curse.
A ragged fence of pickets, warped and sprung,—On which the fragments of a gate are hung, — Divides a hill, the fox and ground-hog haunt, A wilderness of briers; o'er whose tops A battered barn is seen, low-roofed and gaunt, 'Mid fields that know no crops.