Before the wonder of this thing:That God should send so pure a spring,Such grass to grow, such birds to sing,And such small trees bravely to sproutWith timid leaves first coming out.A land spring yearly levies onIs gifted with God's benison.The very odor of the loamFetters me here to this, my home.The whitest lady in the townYonder trailing a silken gownIs less kin to this dirt than I.Rich mistresses with proud heads highThis dirt and I are one to them;They flick us both from the bordered hemOf lovely garments we supply;But I and the dirt see just as highAs any lady cantering by.Why should I cut this bond, my son,This tie too taut to be undone?This ground and I are we not one?Has it not birthed and grown and fed me:Yea, if you will, and also bled me?That little patch of wizened cornAching and straining to be born,May render back at some small rateThe blood and bone of me it ate.
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