Thomas Dunn English

Their homage men pay to the mowing
Which does all the work of a dozen as one,
And, cutting a passageway smoothly and keen,
Keeps steadily on till its labor is done;

I have no gold, no lands, no robes of splendor,
No crowd of sycophants to siege my door;
But fortune in one thing at least is tender--For Psyche loves me
Could I ask for more

RE from the brow of the hill I look, Through a lattice of boughs and leaves,
On the old gray mill with its gambrel roof, And the moss on its rotting eaves
I hear the clatter that jars its walls, And the rushing water’s sound,
And I ...

Here, in my rude log cabin,
Few poorer men there be Among the mountain ranges Of Eastern Tennessee
My limbs are weak and shrunken,
White hairs upon my brow,