And the stars adore, and the still moon waits,
While the hurrying world moves on.
A song to the man of a courtly mien,
With his buckles, and wig, and frill,
And a song to the man with a horny palm,
And the grip of an iron will,
Who planted these fields with their living green,
With the plough, and the hoe and pick;
Who lighted his way by the Psalmist’s lay,
And the glow of a tallowed wick.