An Epitaph for a Husbandman

He who would start and rise
     Before the crowing cocks, --
   No more he lifts his eyes,
     Whoever knocks.
   He who before the stars
     Would call the cattle home, --
   They wait about the bars
     For him to come.
   Him at whose hearty calls
    The farmstead woke again
  The horses in their stalls
    Expect in vain.

  Busy and blithe and bold
    He laboured 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 cleave
    Now cover him.

  But the green, growing things
    Lean kindly to his sleep, --
  White roots and wandering strings,
    Closer they creep.

  Because he loved them long
    And with them bore his part,
  Tenderly now they throng
    About his heart.