Come Up from the Fields, Father Steven Kimbrough & Dalton Baldwin

Come up from the fields, Father
Here’s a letter from our Pete
And come to the front door Mother
Here’s a letter from thy dear son

Lo, ’tis autumn
Lo, where the trees, deeper green, yellower and redder
Cool and sweeten Ohio’s villages
With leaves fluttering in the moderate wind
Where apples ripe in the orchards hang
And grapes on the trellis’d vines

Above all, lo, the sky so calm
So transparent after the rain
And with wondrous clouds
Below too, all calm, all vital and beautiful
And the farm prospers well
Down in the fields all prosper well

But now from the fields come Father
Come at the daughter’s call
And come to the entry Mother
To the front door come right away

Fast as she can she hurries
Something ominous, her steps trembling
She does not tarry to smooth her hair
Nor adjust her cap