I love to see the mists at night
Come creeping all around,
To blot the trees and hedges out,
And thickly clothe the ground.
And now the cobwebs gather fast,
They’re saying night is come at last.
I love to see the farmer plod
In from the harvest field;
When the night comes he is tired,
For he the scythe doth wield.
To cut his crop the whole day long,
He labours fast the corn among.
Tom Harbison Age 11