English, asked by harekrishnadaswbp, 10 months ago

can anyone explain these lines ​

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Answered by nayakdebi
0

Answer:

BACKWARD gazing through the shadows.

As the evening fades away,

I perceive the little footprints,

Where the morning sunlight lay,

Warm and mellow, on the pathway

Leading to the open door

Of the cabin in the clearing,

Where my soul reclines once more.

Oh! that cabin in the clearing,

Where my Mary came, a bride,

Where our children grew to love us,

Where our little Robbie died:

Still in memory blooms the redbud

By the doorway, and the breeze

Tingles with the spicewood's odor

And the catbird's melodies.

And I mind the floor of puncheons,

Rudely laid on joist and sill,

And the fireplace shaped and beaten

From the red clay on the hill;

With the chimney standing outside,

Like a blind man asking alms,

Wrought of sticks and clay and fashioned

By the builder's ready palms.

Half way up the flue, wide-throated,

Does the hickory crosstree rest,

Whence depend the pot and kettle,

Where the great fire blazes best.

Oh! I smell the savory venison,

Hear the hominy simmer low,

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As my Mary stirs the embers

That were ashes long ago.

Once again I hurry homeward,

When the day of toil is o'er,

And my heart leaps up in gladness,

For in this wide open door,

Mary in her homespun habit,

With her hand above her eyes,

Gazes all around the clearing

Till my coming form she spies.

'Tis for her I am a hunter,

And the fleet deer's sudden bound

Tells how swift and sure my aim is,

Ere his life-tide dyes the ground;

'Tis for her I am an angler,

And the spotted beauties woo

From their paradise of waters,

Ere the sun has dried the dew.

And the wild rose and the bluebell

That I pluck with gentle care,

Are for her who rules the cabin-

Mary, of the raven hair;

'Tis for her I smite the forest

Day by day with myriad blows;

'Tis for her the cornstalk tassels,

And the golden pumpkin grows.

Often, winding through the woodlands,

Neighbors come with song and shout,

Eager for a day of pleasure

Where the latch-string hangeth out,

And with ready hands assist us

At our labors, while the zest

Of our conversation heightens

Till the sun goes down the west.

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