Clay

Around old farmsteads there’s a smell of mold,
And in the cellars it is always musty
(From vinegar and apples, I’ve been told);
The beams are cobwebbed, and the rafters dusty.
Often the flags are slippery to the foot
When one goes to the milkhouse through the grapes
The litter in the lofts is flecked with soot—
Old bottles, screens, and kettles, awkward shapes
Of stoneware jugs, gone fieldward to the haying
One time too often for the strength of clay;
There’s hardly anything that’s not decaying.
But that’s quite fitting, for gold heads go gray,
Strong hands get horny, muscles grow rheumatic,
And men as well as things go to the attic.