AN EPITAPH FOR A HUSBANDMAN
HE who would start and riseBefore the crowing cocks—No more he lifts his eyes,Whoever knocks.He who before the starsWould call the cattle home,—They wait about the barsFor him to come.Him at whose hearty callsThe farmstead woke again,The horses in their stallsExpect in vain.Busy, and blithe, and bold,He labored for the morrow,—The plough his hands would holdRusts in the furrow.His fields he had to leave,His orchards cool and dim;The clods he used to cleaveNow cover him.But the green, growing thingsLean kindly to his sleep,—White roots and wandering strings,Closer they creep.Because he loved them longAnd with them bore his part,Tenderly now they throngAbout his heart.
HE who would start and riseBefore the crowing cocks—No more he lifts his eyes,Whoever knocks.He who before the starsWould call the cattle home,—They wait about the barsFor him to come.Him at whose hearty callsThe farmstead woke again,The horses in their stallsExpect in vain.Busy, and blithe, and bold,He labored for the morrow,—The plough his hands would holdRusts in the furrow.His fields he had to leave,His orchards cool and dim;The clods he used to cleaveNow cover him.But the green, growing thingsLean kindly to his sleep,—White roots and wandering strings,Closer they creep.Because he loved them longAnd with them bore his part,Tenderly now they throngAbout his heart.
HE who would start and riseBefore the crowing cocks—No more he lifts his eyes,Whoever knocks.
HE who would start and rise
Before the crowing cocks—
No more he lifts his eyes,
Whoever knocks.
He who before the starsWould call the cattle home,—They wait about the barsFor him to come.
He who before the stars
Would call the cattle home,—
They wait about the bars
For him to come.
Him at whose hearty callsThe farmstead woke again,The horses in their stallsExpect in vain.
Him at whose hearty calls
The farmstead woke again,
The horses in their stalls
Expect in vain.
Busy, and blithe, and bold,He labored for the morrow,—The plough his hands would holdRusts in the furrow.
Busy, and blithe, and bold,
He labored for the morrow,—
The plough his hands would hold
Rusts in the furrow.
His fields he had to leave,His orchards cool and dim;The clods he used to cleaveNow cover him.
His fields he had to leave,
His orchards cool and dim;
The clods he used to cleave
Now cover him.
But the green, growing thingsLean kindly to his sleep,—White roots and wandering strings,Closer they creep.
But the green, growing things
Lean kindly to his sleep,—
White roots and wandering strings,
Closer they creep.
Because he loved them longAnd with them bore his part,Tenderly now they throngAbout his heart.
Because he loved them long
And with them bore his part,
Tenderly now they throng
About his heart.