A Farmer's Son.Swishing, swishing, swishing. I pad down the road with bare, brown feet Wishing, wishing, wishing That the golden heads were a vast gold fleet Sailing, sailing, sailing To the place where the earth and the sky-line meet Paling, paling, paling. 'Tis harvest time and the white hot sun Boiling, boiling, boiling Scorches the faces of men sweat-run Toiling, toiling, toiling. In my jug is cool drink; for their work must be done Teeming, teeming, teeming, There's no time to be spent by a farmer's son Dreaming, dreaming, dreaming. __Isobel Doerr |
Contemporary Kansas Poetry
Helen Rhoda Hoopes
page 49
(Kansas City: Joseph D. Havens Company. 1927)
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