To an Amish farm boy
Upon a gentle slope, through threaded mist An apparition looms; behind a triple team Of stately drafts, your guiding hand enlists Their toil; an heir to tiller's skill, who deem It good to follow forebears, not to roam, Are you content to practice family art, Where nothing mod, no tele calls you home? To furrow, dawn to dark, with willing heart? A rig more potent than machines of war, Your labors promise bread for dozen lands, A flowing cornucopia to pour A harvest into hungry reaching hands. Serene you ride aloft your moldboard plow, Convinced of worth, clear-eyed, with placid brow.