He who would start and rise <br />Before the crowing cocks, -- <br />No more he lifts his eyes, <br />Whoever knocks. <br /> <br />He who before the stars <br />Would call the cattle home, -- <br />They wait about the bars <br />For him to come. <br /> <br />Him at whose hearty calls <br />The farmstead woke again <br />The horses in their stalls <br />Expect in vain. <br /> <br />Busy and blithe and bold <br />He laboured for the morrow, -- <br />The plough his hands would hold <br />Rusts in the furrow. <br /> <br />His fields he had to leave, <br />His orchards cool and dim; <br />The clods he used to cleave <br />Now cover him. <br /> <br />But the green, growing things <br />Lean kindly to his sleep, -- <br />White roots and wandering strings, <br />Closer they creep. <br /> <br />Because he loved them long <br />And with them bore his part, <br />Tenderly now they throng <br />About his heart.<br /><br />Sir Charles GD Roberts<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/an-epitaph-for-a-husbandman-2/
