The Herb-Gatherer
A grey, bald hillside, bristling here and there With leprous-looking grass, that, knobbed with stones, Slopes to a valley where a wild stream moans, And every bush seems tortured to despair And shows its teeth of thorns as if to tear All things to pieces: where the skull and bones Of some dead beast protrude, like visible groans, From one bleak place the winter rains washed bare. Amid the desolation, in decay, Like some half-rotted fungus, grey as slag, A hut of lichened logs; and near it, old, Unspeakably old, a man, the colour of clay, Sorting damp roots and herbs into a bag With trembling hands purple and stiff with cold.
AI analysis available. Enable JavaScript to interact.
About this line
"A grey, bald hillside, bristling here and there..."
Exploring the themes of classic, Madison Julius Cawein delivers a powerful performance in "The Herb-Gatherer"... ### Why We Love This Line At Linespedia, we believe that poetry is the ultimate sanctuary for the soul...