In the winter months of an aged land,
In an old small house there lived an old man,
Who had toiled and twisted the ground each year,
Till with a weary heart his feet did veer.
He sought for himself the treasure men seek,
That his neighbors found delicate and sweet.
And of their treasure too he wished a piece,
That the pains in his weary heart might cease.
He left in winter, his farm all alone,
Thinking treasure common ought not take long.
And though many jewels he found ‘ere he’d roam,
Long in winter sat the old farmer’s home.
For, nay, no gold that he touched with his hands
Could comfort his heart like the old farm lands,
And ev’ry piece he would eye with his sight,
Bore him a burden too heavy or light.
As the fire on his hearth gave its last breath,
And the embers cried in mourn of its death,
The old rugged man returned with hands void,
Alas! To the treasure he still enjoyed.
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