The Press And Plow

We envy not the princely man In city or in town. Who wonders whether pumpkin vines Turn uphill or down. We care not for his marble halls Nor yet his heaps of gold ; We would not own his sordid heart For all his wealth twice told. We sing the honor of the plow, And houqr to the press- Two noble instruments of toil, Each with a power to bless. The bone, the nerve of this fast age, True wealth of human kiud ■ One tills the ever falthful earth, The other tills the mind.