Closer To Earth Hellen Gay Miller Farmhouses seem to nestle down Closer to earth than homes in town. Their walls are wide, their eaves are low, Their roofs reach down to meet the snow. And some wear mufflers, thick and warm, Of brown leaves banked against the storm. Others, with ells spread out like wings, And long, long tails of sheds and things, Are parked like aeroplanes at ease In hangars of snug maple strees. This one is mothered by a hill in whose warm lap the winds grow still - While that one, tucked where cedars tall Protect it with a windward wall, Is over-arched by one great tree - An elm as old as memory. Where miles are long and cold and dark, These homesteads hold the only spark Of life - so little homes on farms Must nestle closest in earth's arms.