A Farmer Remembers

by: Reid Crowell

I think a farmer, gone to town to live,
Would someday hear the call of harvesttime;
He would remember fields where burdened shocks
Stood in the heat, full-golden and sublime.

He would recall the sound of harness rings
And feel the jarring of the wagon bed;
His hands would grip the polished leather reins,
The country winds would sound about his head.

His ears would hear the welcome dinner call
Above the grinding hum of the machine;
He would recall cold water on his face
And feel his burning hands grow cool and clean.

The dinner past and rest in drowsy shade …
How quickly came the thresher’s sound at noon;
He would recall the words one farmer said:
“Is Charlie starting up again so soon?”

I think a farmer, gone to town to live,
Might one day halt his steps among the throng,
And standing rigid lift his voice and say:
“I”m going back, the farm’s where I belong!”