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The Man Behind the Plough
Ere the sun climbs o'er yon wooded hill,
Ere the night-birds cease their morning thrill,
While the drowsy treetops sway in sleep,
And the woolly lambs their vigil keep,
The ploughman wends his lonely way,
'Mid the clover-bloom in early May.
Fresh is the scent from the virgin earth,
When the dormant seed proclaims its birth.
Ere the night-birds cease their morning thrill,
While the drowsy treetops sway in sleep,
And the woolly lambs their vigil keep,
The ploughman wends his lonely way,
'Mid the clover-bloom in early May.
Fresh is the scent from the virgin earth,
When the dormant seed proclaims its birth.
Keenest work is the ploughman's lot!
In the scorching rays he heeds it not;
But along the devious, narrow side,
He toils from morn to eventide.
See how the burnished, glistening scythe
Cleaves close and turns on the greensward blithe.
See how his furrows straight and fine
Around and around his steeds incline.
In the scorching rays he heeds it not;
But along the devious, narrow side,
He toils from morn to eventide.
See how the burnished, glistening scythe
Cleaves close and turns on the greensward blithe.
See how his furrows straight and fine
Around and around his steeds incline.
The dinner-horn sounds loud and clear;
Pricked is each horse's listening ear.
Erect and with patient steps they mount,
To seek the cool, refreshing fount.
Here, where the grassy furrows roll,
Greedy, the barnfowl takes his toll;
And many a morsel sleek and rare
He takes away to his secret lair.
Pricked is each horse's listening ear.
Erect and with patient steps they mount,
To seek the cool, refreshing fount.
Here, where the grassy furrows roll,
Greedy, the barnfowl takes his toll;
And many a morsel sleek and rare
He takes away to his secret lair.
O rural homes in the country wide,
With their oaks and a crystal stream beside!
The vines still trail to the kitchen door,
As flower-perfumed as they were of yore;
And still from the windows opened there,
The songs and the laughter of children fare,
As beautiful as the rhythms dim,
That come from the lips of cherubim.
With their oaks and a crystal stream beside!
The vines still trail to the kitchen door,
As flower-perfumed as they were of yore;
And still from the windows opened there,
The songs and the laughter of children fare,
As beautiful as the rhythms dim,
That come from the lips of cherubim.
How soft and calm is the evening breeze,
That floats from the west to stir the trees!
That day is done; and to rest well earned
The steps of the laboring swain are turned.
A grateful ease do the tired limbs take;
And soothed is the toilworn forehead's ache.
Blessings upon thine honest brow,
Farmer who ploddest behind the plough!
That floats from the west to stir the trees!
That day is done; and to rest well earned
The steps of the laboring swain are turned.
A grateful ease do the tired limbs take;
And soothed is the toilworn forehead's ache.
Blessings upon thine honest brow,
Farmer who ploddest behind the plough!
1922
The Home of My Childhood
The home of my childhood
In dreams oft I see;
The sweet-scented lilacs,
The widespreading tree.
In dreams oft I see;
The sweet-scented lilacs,
The widespreading tree.
The cool pearly fountain,
The rich grassy lawn,
The garden, the orchard,
Long vanished and gone.
The rich grassy lawn,
The garden, the orchard,
Long vanished and gone.
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