The large dark clouds roll over the hills,
The bare, stark hills that thirst and are fain
For the large dark drops to fall down and stain
The stark, bare hills that in thirst remain.
And the dark, large mass lies down on the hills,
But none knows yet if it’s mist or rain,
And the long dark night moves in, devours,
Till its dark long hours gray and wane.
Now the strong high sun slants bright on the hills,
The mud-red hills with their silv’ry lanes,
With their swelling slopes and their glist’ning rocks,
And the farmers laugh for their doubts and pains
And quicken their thoughts for the next year’s gains—
The great gold gains for the long work done,
The strong, large work in the winds and rains,
Long night-hours harvesting, ere day’s begun,
And long hours plowing in the baking sun.