Before Henry Ford
After a broiling day of strain,
Working the August days without rain;
Urging the horse through dusty soil
In careful, monotonous toil;
He could rest on the westward porch,
As the deepened dusk pinched out the torch.
The fingers of the quickened breeze
Would intensify the ease,
And gently caress the worn, lined brow,
White-browned and scrubbed of field-dust now.