He takes up life simply with the small tasks.
 THERE was never a sound beside the wood but one,  And that was my long scythe whispering to the ground.  What was it it whispered? I knew not well myself;  Perhaps it was something about the heat of the sun,  Something, perhaps, about the lack of sound-  And that was why it whispered and did not speak.  It was no dream of the gift of idle hours,  Or easy gold at the hand of fay or elf:  Anything more than the truth would have seemed too weak  To the earnest love that laid the swale in rows,  Not without feeble-pointed spikes of flowers  (Pale orchises), and scared a bright green snake.  The fact is the sweetest dream that labor knows.  My long scythe whispered and left the hay to make.