TO A SCARECROW, OR MALKIN, LEFT LONG AFTER HARVEST
by Charles Tennyson Turner
Poor Malkin, why hast thou been left behind ?
The wains long since have carted off the sheaves,
And keen October, with his whistling wind,
Snaps all the footstalks of the crisping leaves;
Methinks thou art not wholly make-believe ;
Thy posture, hat, and coat, are human still;
Could'st thou but push a hand from out thy sleeve !
Or smile on me ! but ah ! thy face is nil!
The stubbles darken round thee, lonely one !
And man has left thee, all this dreary term,
No mate beside thee—far from social joy ;
As some poor clerk survives his ruin'd firm,
And, in a napless hat, without employ,
Stands, in the autumn of his life, alone.