When the buckeye flowers on the stumpy hills,
The slow plodding mare, the tall trudging plowman
Wind the ridges around with loose shallow furrows,
Dropping seedling corn in hoe-turned trenches,
While the crows flock and caucus, the partridges whistle
Under the greening fleshy stems of the burdocks’ sheltering.
The winded bony mare slings the froth from her mouthing
And sighs through wide arches of quivering nostrils.
Breaker of land, grubbing and striking among the rocks,
Splitter of rails, quilting the high meadows with fences,
Raiser of yearlings to stern bulls and soft-eyed milk cows,
Keeper of sheep that roam unshepherded in lush grazing,
Gatherer of herbs in secreted mountain hollows:
Mountain man, what do you need of life beyond your hills?
What need of strength beyond your calloused hand,
Your thick muscled shoulders, your arm’s firm steadiness?
Here you may eat untainted bread, here a free man stand.