It fell about the edge of dark, <br />Between the sun and moon, <br />The yeoman's son came home again <br />With the mire upon his shoon - <br /> <br />With the red clay upon his shoon <br />From a furrowed field afar - <br />The sour and bitter clod that breaks <br />Beneath the share of war. <br /> <br />'Oh, kiss me once on the brows, mother, <br />And hold me to your breast; <br />For the long day's work is over and done, <br />And I go glad to rest.' <br /> <br />'And oh, good-bye, my father's house, <br />Good-bye to field and hill, <br />For I'll lie down in the red furrow <br />To sleep, and sleep my fill.' <br /> <br />'I shall not rouse at the cock-crow, <br />I shall not wake with the sun; <br />I shall sleep the sleep of a strong man tired <br />When his day's work is done.' <br /> <br />'Ay, deep I'll sleep in the red furrow, <br />Out over the Channel foam . . . <br />And another hand than mine, mother, <br />Must lead the harvest home!'<br /><br />Cicely Fox Smith<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-yeoman-s-son/
