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Edgar Allen Poe

Little Brown Hands.

HEY drive home the cows from the pasture, Up through the long, shady lane, T O Where the quail whistles loud in the wheat-fields That are yellow with ripening grain.

They find, in the thick, waving grasses, Where the scarlet-lipped strawberry grows; They gather the earliest snow-drops, And the first crimson buds of the rose.

They toss the new hay in the meadow; They gather the elder-blooms white; They find where the dusky grapes purple, In the soft-tinted October light.

They know where the apples hang ripest, And are sweeter than Italy's wines; They know where the fruit hangs the thickest On the long, thorny blackberry-vines.

They gather the delicate sea-weeds, And build tiny castles of sand; They pick up the beautiful sea-shells- Fairy barks that have drifted to land.

They wave from the tall, rocking tree-tops, Where the oriole's hammock-nest swings; And at night-time are folded in slumber By a song that a fond mother sings.

Those who toil bravely are strongest; The humble and poor become great; And so from these brown-handed children Shall grow mighty rulers of state.

The pen of the author and statesman- The noble and wise of the land- The sword, and the chisel, and palette, Shall be held in the little brown hand.