A FIELD of golden wheat there grows, Even to the world's end it goes. Grind, O mill, keep grinding! The wind falters in all the land, The mills on the horizon stand. Grind, O mill, keep grinding! The evening sky turns somber red; Many poor people cry for bread. Grind, O mill, keep grinding! The night's womb holds a storm within; To-morrow shall the task begin. Grind, O mill, keep grinding! The storm shall sweep the fields of earth Until no man cries out for dearth! Grind, O mill, keep grinding! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...MIDSUMMER FROST (1) by ISAAC ROSENBERG JEWISH LULLABY by LOUIS UNTERMEYER THE BANKS O' DOON by ROBERT BURNS THE BALLAD OF EAST AND WEST by RUDYARD KIPLING AT A VACATION EXERCISE IN THE COLLEGE by JOHN MILTON |