A youth lay stretched upon the new-mown hay,
In woodland meadow, near a winding stream,
And gazed at summer-clouds so far away,
And who can tell the substance of his dream?—
A span of horses and a rusty rake
Stood near him, where his father made repair,—
The ground was rough, and things did sometimes break,
And added trouble to the toiler’s care;—
At last the rake was fixed, the boy arose
To take his place upon its iron-stool,
And doing so, he said: “Do you suppose
That I can go away, this fall, to school?”
To which his father answered: “We will see,—
If you work hard, till snow flies, it may be.”