The evening sun is setting
O'er the fields so labour worn,
The daisies nod their weary heads,
The ruddy clay adorn.

The cows are gently lowing
Near the barn so huge and grey,
The farmer's turning homeward
At the closing of the day.

The fields are rich with harvest,
After months of weary toil,
The farmer's hands are blistered,
Bearing traces of the soil.

'Tis a quaint old sight - the farmhouse,
With shutters open wide,
A place of blissful harmony,
Where peace and love abide.

Supper's on the table, now
Grandma's waiting there.
Grandpa pauses, bows his head
To offer up a prayer.

"These fields are thine, O Lord, above,
And everything they hold.
To watch the plant break forth from seed
Is worth far more than gold.

Thy blessings, Lord, upon this farm
Is all that I would ask,
Give me grace and guidance
To perform my daily task."

The moon is rising o'er the creek,
The elm trees gently sway,
Grandpa's farm is calling me
At closing of the day!


© Sylvia Burnett

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