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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=535733" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Words Of A Dying Farmer</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=535733" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">For W.C.F.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=535733" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">Beat the fields in furrows home.<br>Hoe a row of young shoots of corn.<br>To be born anew push three fingers <br>into the ground. Drop, every other step, <br>three seeds, then five from the hand.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=535733" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">The earth's alive still with tender things. <br>Please god and sun the sky will not <br>harry boys home from school, <br>will not rule them as cruel fathers do, <br>their boiling fever for work till weary knees bow, <br>fingernails tearing on rocks lifted from <br>red rows behind a redder plow.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=535733" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">Now is the time to say I hated the work of fields, <br>and I am old. No more to fold the earth.<br>No more to pull stalks from frost<br>but to lift this last rock and hurry home.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=Warren+Falcon">Warren Falcon</a></strong></div>

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