Classic Poem

The cows have come home from the cotton-field pasture,
The colts are at rest, and the calves are all dumb,
Aunt Rosey has given the apple he asked for,
And Bobby's asleep as sound as a drum!

From the earliest neigh of Dan Phoebus his courser,
Till the last weary team from its yoke was unloosed
He's run with the wagon and ridden the horses,
And now he has gone with the chickens to roost!

And sweet be the dreams of his manly young spirit,
When beautiful sleep on his eyelids shall rest,
Till the hands that have wrought for the bliss they inherit
Shall be folded for aye, on an innocent breast!

No poet may scribble his deeds into story!
No column arise with the sound of his name,
But the works of his hands shall be better than glory
And the worth of his heart shall be brighter than fame.