(The Rustic Poet Soliloquizes)

Nay , chide me not because my pipe oft sings
Of country doings and of common things:

Of sun-steeped fields where men forestall the day
To gather up in mows the winter's hay;

Of kine called musically at the bars,
And swaying home beneath the early stars;

Of woods divinely cool, where moss and fern
Do haunt the pleasant places of the burn;

Of berry pickings, and of harvest fun
Beneath the moon when day-work all is done;

Of fall forgatherings, when nuts are thick,
And boys beat out the burrs with lusty stick;

Of storm-bound labors and of snowings-in,
When water lacks, and low is every bin;

Of cutting ice upon the waveless lake,
Where skaters whirl and frosty music make;

Of these, and more, the happenings manifold,
Whereby the countryside's full tale is told.

Nay, chide me not, for these are things I see
And know and love — the very heart of me.

So did Theocritus, and still we hear
His airs Sicilian and his message clear.