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 againThe 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.
