Page:A Sheaf Gleaned in French Fields.djvu/309

The spindles stop; the bright lamps shine;
Curls of white smoke from roofs ascend,
Of evening's repast the sign;
The clock strikes; work is at an end;
The weary workman homeward goes.
Home! 'tis a hovel,—but the light
Of love, rose-colours round it throws!
He hastes;—already 'tis in sight!
Come, let us rest
Till dawn again:
Repose is blest
To toil and pain.

The busy wife and children dear
Await his presence anxiously,
Soon as they see him—'Lo! he's here!'
Bursts from their lips the common cry.
Sweet kisses,—home-made wine, and food,
Revive his pale, pale face again,
His children have had bread,—and should
A man with such a wife complain?
Come, let us rest
Till dawn again:
Repose is blest
To toil and pain.

The hearth-fires all die slowly out,
Far off is heard a deadened roar,
Engines released from work, no doubt,
The hammer strokes resound no more.
From noises vain and empty shows,
Let us our souls now turn away,