A Born Farmer

Edna Jaques May 1 1935

A Born Farmer

Edna Jaques May 1 1935

A Born Farmer

He loved his fields, the grey old pasture lot

Bordered with spruce and fir and singing pine,

The spring below the hill...the little creek

That seemed to hug the ragged timber-line,

The orchard on a slope where all day long

The very branches were alive with song.

He loved his dim old barns ... the weathered beams

Hewn with an adze, from virgin spruce and fir;

The fragrant loft, where pigeons made their home,

Old stalls where little new-born creatures stir

And draw their first sweet breath and are alive.

(For golden honey bees about their hive.)

He loved his home...the very walls and floors

Whispered to him a language that he knew;

The worn old steps. . .the pump beside the door,

The cool old milk-house with its sheltering yew.

Whose branches cast their lacy dappled shade

Like carpets on the cool sweet grasses laid.

All these he loved ... the old good things of earth,

The dumb sweet scented cattle in the stall,

Little blind kittens mewing in the dark

(A thin old mother in a woollen shawl).

The miracle of dawn ... old twisted trees,

His soul bowed down its head and worshipped these.

Edna Jaques