My lord rides through his palace gate. 



My lady sweeps along in state; 



The sage thinks long on many a thing, 



And the maiden muses on marrying; 



The minstrel harpeth merrily, 



The sailor ploughs the foaming sea. 



But fall to each whate'er befall. 



The farmer feedeth all. 



Smith hammereth cherry-red the sword, 

 Priest preacheth pure the Holy Word; 

 Clerk Richard tales of love can tell. 

 Dame Alice worketh 'broidery well; 

 Great work is done, be it here or there. 

 And well man worketh everywhere; 



But work or rest, whate'er befall. 



The farmer feedeth all. 



— Charles G. Leland. 



God, make me worthy of Thy land 

 Which mine I call a little while. 

 This meadow where the sunset's smile 



Falls like blessing from Thy hand. 

 And where the river singing runs 

 'Neath wintry skies and summer suns. 



I would be nobler than to clutch 



My little world with gloating grasp; 



Now, while I live, my hands unclasp, 

 O let me hold it not so much 



For my own joy as for the good 



Of all the gentle brotherhood. 



— R. W. Gilder. 



