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.