Classic Poem

No , no; I am not lonely,
From the busy world apart;
My pulses beat responsive
To the great all-mother's heart,
Far from the noise and bustle
Of the Babel bourse and mart.

I love the gentle voices
Of the brooklet and the breeze;
Love the shady vale, the hillside,
And the grand old forest trees,
And never could be lonesome
In the company of these.

I have never seen a dryad,
Never seen a fauNor fay;
But in the cool, green woodlands,
Are spirits blithe as they;
I hear the merry murmur
Of their songs the livelong day.

You want to know, dear lady,
How on earth I spend my time?
Well, since I'm in the humor,
I will answer you in rhyme,
But must premise, the story
Will have nothing of sublime.

I make my bed at morning,
Sometimes sweep the chamber floor,
Pick up the scattered garments
The little children wore,
Fill and trim the coal-oil burner,
And drive the flies outdoor.

Then air and dust the parlor,
With plumes from turkey wings
And rearrange the nicknacks —
Old, precious, priceless things,
Reminders of far countries,
And delightful wanderings.

I try to make a picture,
With table, sofa and chair,
Laying a book or a paper
Carelessly here and there,
To give to the tout-ensemble
A cozy, home-like air.

Then I feed the baby chickens,
White and yellow, black and gray:
Look up the dumpy ducklings
Or the turkeys gone astray,
Or read in the morning paper
The doings of yesterday.

Or watch the sturdy ploughman,
Afield at early morn,
Plodding along the furrow,
Stopping to straighten the corn.
Or leading his horse to water
At sound of the dinner horn.

Then hie me to the meadow,
Where all hands are raking hay,
Fearing the smallest cloudlet
That obscures a solar ray,
And hoping the rain will tarry
Till harvest is stored away.

No, no; I am not lonesome
Living on my little farm;
Its labors are rewarded,
And its duties have a charm
To elevate the spirit
And to keep affection warm.

And while my hands are busy
With the work that must be done,
Through my brain an undercurrent
Of fancy seems to run,
Like a streamlet blossom-shaded
From the ardor of the sun.

And when the shadows lengthen
And climb the beechen hill;
When Nature lays her finger
On her lips and all is still,
I write the rhymic numbers
That come and go at will.