Yet sometimes, as we trench our stubborn soil,
Or feed our sows, or strow the peat-moss litter,
Or set the morrow’s chicken-mash to boil,
Or wander out where our young turkeys twitter,
Or read by mellow candle-light—since oil
Is dear and scarce; or talk—a little bitter
Because we find that Food Control Committees
Are all composed of men brought up in cities;
Sometimes, in this five-acre paradise
Whither my nerve-racked spirit fled the battle