Classic Poem

I reckon I'm kin to the lilies: I toil not, an' never spin;
I only answer to roll-call when the winds from the west blow in
Over the dew-drenched medders — over the song-sweet rills,
An' the sun with a glad " Good-mornin' " reads the dreams o' the drowsy hills.

What do I want to toil fer, when the golden bee contrives
To feed a feller on honey stored in the drippin' hives;
When I see the color creepin' to the peach's rosy roun'
An' the red-ripe apples are fallin' an' dentin' the wet, sweet groun'?

Never was made fer a worker; how kin I stack the hay
Or follow the furrow when all the birds are singin' my soul away?
Singin' my soul away to the medder-grasses sweet;
With the green o' the boughs above me an' the violets at my feet?

Reckon I'm kin to the lilies — that's what the workers say;
Brother-in-law to the medder dressed fer the marriage with May;
But I allus answer to roll-call — though I toil not, an' never spin;
The roll-call o' the roses when the winds from the west blow in!