Boaz, overcome with weariness, by torchlight
Made his pallet on the threshing floor
Where all day he had worked, and now he slept
Among the bushels of threshed wheat.
The old man owned wheatfields and barley,
And though he was rich, he was still fair-minded.
No filth soured the sweetness of his well.
No hot iron of torture whitened in his forge.
His beard was silver as a brook in April.
He bound sheaves without the strain of hate
Or envy. He saw gleaners pass, and said,
Let handfuls of the fat ears fall to them.
The man’s mind, clear of untoward feeling,
Clothed itself in candor. He wore clean robes.
His heaped granaries spilled over always
Toward the poor, no less than public fountains.
Boaz did well by his workers and by kinsmen.
He was generous, and moderate. Women held him
Worthier than younger men, for youth is handsome,
But to him in his old age came greatness.
An old man, nearing his first source, may find
The timelessness beyond times of trouble.
And though fire burned in young men’s eyes,
To Ruth the eyes of Boaz shone clear light.