I always gather crumbs of bread. Before those crumbs I bow!
I've felt the spell of fresh-baked bread from childhood until now.
I used to tread the village paths. Now back to them 1 hark.
I knew the sickle's balanced heft and thumbed its shining arc.
I helped to harvest fields of wheat. Thick sheaves of corn I've tied.
To gather all my rural years in verse I've never tried.
I've threshed the corn, I've winnowed grain and sung a harvest song.
Slow oxen's backs have felt my switch to make them plod along.
I garnered ears the reapers left, my eyes fixed on the ground,
As I tramped thro' the autumn fields, tall mountains all around.
I've wandered all the night and day—Fate's pariah, no more—
Or like a broken straw that drifts across the threshing floor.
I smell as soon as I awake, here at my homeun town,
Good fresh-baked bread and I can guess its crust is golden-brown.
The baker soon will reach our yard I know some time before
I see him with his basket-load of bread approach my door.
How precious is the wholesome scent of bread that fills our street!
It makes the very heavens bright and our dear Earth more sweet.
When ripened heads of grain are plump and fields are glowing gold,
It seems that people and our planet never shall grow old.
Am I compelled by long lean years, or sacred laws that now
I always gather crumbs of bread? Before those crumbs I bow.