I hear the noon-day tin horn blow,
Oh, sweeter than Æolian tones,
Its welcome to the hungry zones,
Where men afield with plow and hoe,
Who hear its call, are turning home—
Their jaded horses, flecked with foam,
Now answer with a knowing neigh—
It all comes back to me.
The meadows there seem ripe to mow,
So tawny, thick, and redolent