Who never stirreth in the day;
His hand is wither’d—he is old!
On Sundays’ he is us’d to pray,
In winter he is very cold.
VII.
I’ve seen him in the month of August,
At the wheat-field, hour by hour,
Picking ear—by ear,—by ear,—
Through wind,—and rain,—and sun,—and shower,
From year,—to year,—to year,—to year.