Most of us are not farmers
Here, in this late century;
Yet still we live and
still we breathe
To the ancient rhythm of
the farm.
Time comes on in harvests
And crop-shocking frosts,
And though we sleep
through dawns and roosters,
Our days are long when the
wheat is long,
Short when the dull cattle
sleep,
Warm when the earth has
need of warmth,
Cold when our mother is
barren.
Now the manure smells of
apples,
And the last blaze of heat
fades;
Barns fill up with the
summer’s yield,
And the Yankee soul is
glad again;
Swelled with the bounty
his neighbors reap;
Eased gratefully into the
winter.
