In a field of tall grass
And bales of hay
Sits a little boy
With curly flaxen hair
And little round, red cheeks
Freckles and coveralls
Chewing on the bermuda
Like the cows around him
Dreaming only as a little boy can
Of days when he'll grow up
Cutting the hay, tilling the fields
Hearing his father's voice calling
Catching a breeze home
Dancing and dreaming
As dusk turns to twilight
He'll finish his journey
With a sleepy smile
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem