Still stand, as when our fathers tilled the soil, The shocks of fodder on the upland's crest Like shapely wigwams; for God's hand has blest The children's as he blest the parent's toil. Again the year with laughter and with song, In overflowing barns has heaped its store Of garnered harvest, adding more to more Of rich abundance for the winter long. The cattle linger by the river's bend, Surpassing Landseer's color in the light No brush can paint that falls before the night Has mixed its purple in the palette's blend. Slow down! It seems like sacrilege to speed Across God's open country unaware Of all its beauty, in the golden glare Of sunset, with no thanking in our creed. Now lamps are in the windows, and the gleam Of swinging lanterns cheers the farmstead's close, Ere man and beast make ready for repose All through the night, beneath the stars' free beam. Slow down! Perhaps the farmhouse people know The hand of Him who prospers all their days, And each before the family altar prays -- Slow down! We, too, some gratitude can show. |