Mildred Weston

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 living things,

So when he climbs the slopes to meet

The rising sun, they kiss his feet!