At milking time, as if they smelled
The many-windowed barn, that held
The corn and clover.
I see, beyond the garden-gate
The gray bull-calf, that used to wait
To “hook” that gate off—
And flower-beds, where browsed the bees
’Neath overhanging cherry-trees
Whose twigs he ate off.
’Twas there, above the hollyhocks,