A Poet’s Blessing. From the German of Uhland

As I wandered the fields along,
Listening to the lark’s sweet song,
I saw an old man working there,
A laborer with hoary hair.

“Blessings upon this field!” I said;
“Fruitful by faithful labor made.
And blessings on thy wrinkled hand,
Thus scattering seed along the land!”

He answered me, with earnest face,
“A poet’s blessing’s out of place;
Likely enough that Heaven, in scorn,
Will send us flowers instead of corn.”

“Nay, friend,” said I, “my tuneful powers
Wake not to life too many flowers;
Only enough to grace the land,
And fill thy little grandson’s hand.”