He who would start and rise <br /> Before the crowing cocks, -- <br /> No more he lifts his eyes, <br /> Whoever knocks. <br /> He who before the stars <br /> Would call the cattle home, -- <br /> They wait about the bars <br /> For him to come. <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 George Douglas Roberts<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/an-epitaph-for-a-husbandman/
