He travels after a winter sun,
Urging the cattle along a cold red road,
Calling to them, a voice they know,
He drives his beasts above Cabra.
The voice tells them home is warm.
They moo and make brute music with their hoofs.
He drives them with a flowering branch before him,
Smoke pluming their foreheads.
Boor, bond of the herd,
Tonight stretch full by the fire!
I bleed by the black stream
For my torn bough!
| Best Poems | Short Poems
Email Poem |
More Poems by James Joyce
Comments, Analysis, and Meaning on Tilly
Provide your analysis, explanation, meaning, interpretation, and comments on the poem Tilly here.
Commenting turned off, sorry.