I
PLANTING
Wild plum blossoms on the roadside,
Peach blows on the waking boughs;
Daring whistlers trying pipe notes
Far above the resting plows.
Partridge calling in the woodland,
Budding willow, whispering reed,
Bordering the fallow furrow,
Waiting for the cotton seed.
Strong and black the droning negroes,
Following the even drills,
Flinging out the seed of promise
To the idle, sleepy mills.
Love a-bud with other flowers,
Love a-bloom, as others sow,
To the humble youth and maiden
Meeting in the cotton row.
II
LAYING BY
A PROMISE rests upon the mellow field,
A-quiver with the midtide summer's heat;
The heart of nature kindles at the blush
Of pink and white that opens at her feet.
The lazy plows are turning once again,
The droning workers pause between the rows
To give a burst of melody, and wipe
The sweat of honest labor as it glows.
A musing lover bends his dusky face
Above the plow-lines, slackened o'er his dream;
He knows she waits with platter 'neath the beech, —
Her earthern pitcher cooling in the stream.
For Love's a-bloom in burning summer's heat,
And Love's a-thrive beside the ripening bolls, —
A golden arrow lost amid the glebe
Upturned on yearly round by simple souls.
III
PICKING
Whiter than snowflakes, fulfilling the promise
Made by the earth to the souls that would trust,
Crowned with the beauty of autumn, and lifting
The star of her glory up out of the dust.
Pure is the heart of the boll for the picking,
Golden the mesh that the autumn has spun,
Holding the melody, wreathing the singers,
Winding through wealth that hard labor has won.
Dark are the cheeks of the youth and the maiden,
Bright is the smile lit by Love as he goes;
Nimble the fingers that touch ere the parting,
Meeting again in the oft trodden rows.
Soft is the song of the man for the maiden,
Soft is the maid's, — they are singing to each,
Heaping the baskets up high with their lint-locks,
Building a castle that love can but reach.
ENVOI
Oh, marriage day! come true by winter's frost,
Blest be, in simple faith, to man and maid;
Sweet be the broken bread of honest toil,
To humble hearts beneath the cottonade.
PLANTING
Wild plum blossoms on the roadside,
Peach blows on the waking boughs;
Daring whistlers trying pipe notes
Far above the resting plows.
Partridge calling in the woodland,
Budding willow, whispering reed,
Bordering the fallow furrow,
Waiting for the cotton seed.
Strong and black the droning negroes,
Following the even drills,
Flinging out the seed of promise
To the idle, sleepy mills.
Love a-bud with other flowers,
Love a-bloom, as others sow,
To the humble youth and maiden
Meeting in the cotton row.
II
LAYING BY
A PROMISE rests upon the mellow field,
A-quiver with the midtide summer's heat;
The heart of nature kindles at the blush
Of pink and white that opens at her feet.
The lazy plows are turning once again,
The droning workers pause between the rows
To give a burst of melody, and wipe
The sweat of honest labor as it glows.
A musing lover bends his dusky face
Above the plow-lines, slackened o'er his dream;
He knows she waits with platter 'neath the beech, —
Her earthern pitcher cooling in the stream.
For Love's a-bloom in burning summer's heat,
And Love's a-thrive beside the ripening bolls, —
A golden arrow lost amid the glebe
Upturned on yearly round by simple souls.
III
PICKING
Whiter than snowflakes, fulfilling the promise
Made by the earth to the souls that would trust,
Crowned with the beauty of autumn, and lifting
The star of her glory up out of the dust.
Pure is the heart of the boll for the picking,
Golden the mesh that the autumn has spun,
Holding the melody, wreathing the singers,
Winding through wealth that hard labor has won.
Dark are the cheeks of the youth and the maiden,
Bright is the smile lit by Love as he goes;
Nimble the fingers that touch ere the parting,
Meeting again in the oft trodden rows.
Soft is the song of the man for the maiden,
Soft is the maid's, — they are singing to each,
Heaping the baskets up high with their lint-locks,
Building a castle that love can but reach.
ENVOI
Oh, marriage day! come true by winter's frost,
Blest be, in simple faith, to man and maid;
Sweet be the broken bread of honest toil,
To humble hearts beneath the cottonade.