Weary, they plod the ploughlands of the World. Wherever turf is turned their hooves have pressed. Gladly the great Earth-mother gives her breast For them to trample -- her pure bosom, pearled With dews of innumerable mornings. Where were furled Slit pitiful flags, their passing stills dismay: Yoke-ridden, mute, Peace binds on them her bay. -- For this the goad, the lash, the curse age-hurled! Patient (Ah, theirs the patient eyes of Christ!), They tread the centuries. Behind them flows The furrowed glebe, and hath since Egypt rose, Starlike, above the Nile. They bide the tryst Man hath appointed; till he dig their graves, Serve him, complaintless, who hath made them slaves. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SONGS AND THE POET (FOR SARA TEASDALE) by LOUIS UNTERMEYER THE NIGHTINGALE by PAUL VERLAINE THE PHANTOM-LOVER [OR, WOOER] by THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES SECOND BOOK OF AIRS: SONG 18 by THOMAS CAMPION THE SPOUSE TO THE BELOVED by WILLIAM BALDWIN |