They Who Prepare my Evening Meal Below in  General   

They who prepare my evening meal below
Carelessly hit the kettle as they go
With tongs or shovel,
And ringing round and round,
Out of this hovel
It makes an eastern temple by the sound.
At first I thought a cow bell right at hand
Mid birches sounded o'er the open land,
Where I plucked flowers
Many years ago,
Spending midsummer hours
With such secure delight they hardly seemed to flow.

By Henry David Thoreau

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Other poems by Henry David Thoreau:

• Conscience
• Epitaph On The World
• Friendship
• I am the autumnal sun
• I Knew A Man By Sight
• Indeed, indeed, I cannot tell
• Inspiration
• Let such pure hate still underprop
• Low-Anchored Cloud
• My life has been the poem
• Pray to What Earth
• Prayer
• Rumors from an Aeolian Harp
• Sic Vita
• Smoke
• The Inward Morning
• The Summer Rain
• They Who Prepare my Evening Meal Below
• Within the Circuit of This Plodding Life