WOMAN of the field,—by the sunset furrow, Lone-faring woman, woman at the plough, What of the harrow?—there so near their foreheads. Can there be harvest, now? "My one Belovéd sowed here his body; Under the furrows that open so red. All that come home now, have we for our children.— They will be wanting bread." | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...CATTLE SHOW by CHRISTOPHER MURRAY GRIEVE CHILDREN by WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY: DAISY FRASER by EDGAR LEE MASTERS HYMN TO THE FLOWERS by HORACE SMITH NATIONAL ODE; INDEPENDENCE SQUARE, PHILADELPHIA by BAYARD TAYLOR |