TO MY FATHER

The eastern hill hath scarce unveiled his head,

And the deliberate sky hath but begun

To meditate upon a future sun,

When thou dost rise from thy impatient bed.

Thy morning prayer unto the stars is said.

And not unlike a child, the penance done

Of sleep, thou goest to thy serious fun,

Exuberant — yet with a whisper tread.

And when that lord doth to the world appear,

The jovial sun, he leans on his old hill,

And levels forth to thee a golden smile —

Thee in his garden, where each warming year

Thou toilest in all joy with him, to fill

And flood the soil with Summer for a while.