Go down, my son, to the ploughing In fields where the robin runs, And turn the dead leaves under While I listen to the guns. Go down, my son, to the planting, Now nature makes man a seer, And root your faith in sub-soil For death is rumbling near. Go down, my son, to the harvest, The answer to prayers for rain, And I shall come down to find you When blood is on the plain. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...CENTRAL PARK AT DUSK by SARA TEASDALE SPRING ON BROADWAY by LOUIS UNTERMEYER WHAT THE BULLET SANG by FRANCIS BRET HARTE MY LIFE by HENRY DAVID THOREAU TELLING THE BEES by JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER WELCOME GUEST by JEAN D. ARMSTRONG TO K. H. by THOMAS EDWARD BROWN BRITANNIA'S PASTORALS: BOOK 1. THE THIRD SONG by WILLIAM BROWNE (1591-1643) |