There is no dew of wonder, but stark dearth,
In one old man who hoes his long bean rows,
And only hoes.
Old Hezekiah turned slow on his heel.
He touched his son. Thro’ all the carking day
There are so many littlish cares to weigh
Large natures down, and steel
The heart of understanding. “Son, how is’t ye feel?
What are ye starin’ on—a gal?” A ray
Flushed Eben from the fading afterglow: