His eyes can be quite old and stern;
But I have often watched them yearn
Over an animal in pain.
And I have seen him through the rain
Carry young lambs into the fold.
If a September night turns cold
He leaves his sleep, and in the gloom
Covers the bushes that might bloom.
I know that when his eyes grow dim
The first young bud will shout to him;
For, in the Spring I see him kneel
Upon the rigid earth and feel
With gentle hands among the leaves.
No glistening rim of frost deceives
His instinct for arbutus flowers.
He sings during his working hours
In a young voice, a rousing song
And sweeps the lagging work along.
To the delighted earth he brings
Abounding love of little things.
So, when he climbs the slope to meet
The rising sun, they kiss his feet.