Page:The Writings of John Green Whittier (v.1).pdf/271

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AMONG THE HILLS.
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No time is this for hands long over-wornTo task their strength: and (unto Him be praiseWho giveth quietness!) the stress and strainOf years that did the work of centuriesHave ceased, and we can draw our breath once moreFreely and full. So, as yon harvestersMake glad their nooning underneath the elmsWith tale and riddle and old snatch of song,I lay aside grave themes, and idly turnThe leaves of memory's sketch-book, dreaming o'erOld summer pictures of the quiet hills,And human life, as quiet, at their feet.
And yet not idly all. A farmer's son,Proud of field-lore and harvest craft, and feeling All their fine possibilities, how richAnd restful even poverty and toilBecome when beauty, harmony, and loveSit at their humble hearth as angels satAt evening in the patriarch's tent, when man Makes labor noble, and his farmer's frockThe symbol of a Christian chivalryTender and just and generous to herWho clothes with grace all duty; still, I know Too well the picture has another side,—How wearily the grind of toil goes onWhere love is wanting, how the eye and ear And heart are starved amidst the plenitudeOf nature, and how hard and colorlessIs life without an atmosphere. I lookAcross the lapse of half a century,
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