Classic Poem

The mist hangs thick about the early field
& many a shout is heard while nought appears
Till close upon the gaze so thick conseald
Are things in mornings mist mayhap her tears
For summers sad departure—silence hears
Brown harvests dittys that disturb full soon
Her rest—toils lusty brawls that daily cheers
Its ignorance of sorrows with the boon
Of pastoral tunes ere morns red sun appears
Till dreamy evenings ruddy harvest moon
Hangs its large lamp to light them home again
The little children in their harvest dress
Amid the stubs of trifling ills complain