A Load of Hay

By James B. Weaver 

Hard paved streets and hurrying feet,

Where it's oft but a nod when old friends meet,

Rattle of cart and shriek of horn,

Laughing Youth and Age forlorn,

Bound for the office I speed away,

When my auto brushes—a load of hay!

Chauffeur curses, I scarcely hear,

For things I loved as a boy seem near:

Scent of meadows at early morn,

Miles of waving fields of corn,

Lowing cattle and colts at play—

Far have I drifted another way!

Hark, the bell as it calls the noon!

Boys at their chores, hear them whistle a tune!

Barn doors creaking on rusty locks,

Rattle of corn in the old feed-box,

Answering nicker at toss of hay—

Old sweet sounds of a far-off day.

There, my driver stops with a jerk;

Then far aloft to the scene of my work;

But all day long midst the city's roar

My heart is the heart of a boy once more,

My feet in old-time fields astray,

Lured—by the scent from a load of hay!