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| THE SUN comes up and the sun goes down; | |
| The night mist shroudeth the sleeping town; | |
| But if it be dark or if it be day, | |
| If the tempests beat or the breezes play, | |
| Still here on this upland slope I lie, | 5 |
| Looking up to the changeful sky. | |
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| Naught am I but a fallow field; | |
| Never a crop my acres yield. | |
| Over the wall at my right hand | |
| Stately and green the corn-blades stand, | 10 |
| And I hear at my left the flying feet | |
| Of the winds that rustle the bending wheat. | |
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| Often while yet the morn is red | |
| I list for our master’s eager tread. | |
| He smiles at the young corn’s towering height, | 15 |
| He knows the wheat is a goodly sight, | |
| But he glances not at the fallow field | |
| Whose idle acres no wealth may yield. | |
| |
| Sometimes the shout of the harvesters | |
| The sleeping pulse of my being stirs, | 20 |
| And as one in a dream I seem to feel | |
| The sweep and the rush of the swinging steel, | |
| Or I catch the sound of the gay refrain | |
| As they heap their wains with the golden grain. | |
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| Yet, O my neighbors, be not too proud, | 25 |
| Though on every tongue your praise is loud. | |
| Our mother Nature is kind to me, | |
| And I am beloved by bird and bee, | |
| And never a child that passes by | |
| But turns upon me a grateful eye. | 30 |
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| Over my head the skies are blue; | |
| I have my share of the rain and dew; | |
| I bask like you in the summer sun | |
| When the long bright days pass, one by one, | |
| And calm as yours is my sweet repose | 35 |
| Wrapped in the warmth of the winter snows. | |
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| For little our loving mother cares | |
| Which the corn or the daisy bears, | |
| Which is rich with the ripening wheat, | |
| Which with the violet ’s breath is sweet, | 40 |
| Which is red with the clover bloom, | |
| Or which for the wild sweet-fern makes room. | |
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| Useless under the summer sky | |
| Year after year men say I lie. | |
| Little they know what strength of mine | 45 |
| I give to the trailing blackberry vine; | |
| Little they know how the wild grape grows, | |
| Or how my life-blood flushes the rose. | |
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| Little they think of the cups I fill | |
| For the mosses creeping under the hill; | 50 |
| Little they think of the feast I spread | |
| For the wild wee creatures that must be fed: | |
| Squirrel and butterfly, bird and bee, | |
| And the creeping things that no eye may see. | |
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| Lord of the harvest, thou dost know | 55 |
| How the summers and winters go. | |
| Never a ship sails east or west | |
| Laden with treasures at my behest, | |
| Yet my being thrills to the voice of God | |
| When I give my gold to the golden-rod. | 60 |
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