New-Mown Hay

Sweet, oh sweet, from the fields to-day
Wafts the breath of the new-mown hay.

Sewing away in a happy dream,
I sit in the porch with my long white seam.

The very silence is like a tune,
Sung to the golden afternoon.

While the house is still, and the meadows lie
Fast asleep ‘neath the radiant sky.

Only at intervals, now and then,
I hear the farmer call to his men.

And the farmer’s voice is dear to me
As ever a mortal voice can be.

You may talk of the love of youth and maid,
Of two in childhood, perhaps, who played

Together by rill and fount and tree,
Till their hearts had grown one heart to be;

You may tell of the loyal faith and life
Of the husband dear and the gentle wife;

But the widowed mother leans closest on
The tender strength of her only son.

Ah! what if that farmer of mine one day
Should seek him a bride, as well he may,

And bring her home! Would I be loath,
Mother and friend, to live for both?

For somehow the scent of the new-mown hay
Carries me back to a far-off day,

When my silver hair was in waves of brown,
When my bashful glances kept looking down,

And swift to my cheek, in a sudden red,
Mounted the blush, at a soft word said.

Truly the days of my youth were sweet,
Ere the path was rough to my toiling feet.

Truly the morning of life was blest,
And yet in sooth is the evening best;

For I’ve learned the lesson that joys must fly,
And the proudest hopes, like flowers, die.

But God abides in his heaven, and he
Will never forget to care for me.

Sweet, oh sweet, is the new-mown hay,
Wafting its breath from the fields to-day.

Sweet is the golden afternoon,
With its silence rhythmic as a tune,

And dear to the soul is the calm content
Of hours in grateful trusting spent.