THE delicate gray trees stand up There by the fenced ways; One or two are crimson-tipped, And soon will start to blaze. The plowman follows, as of yore, Along the furrows cold, Homeric shape against the boughs; Sharp is the air with mold. The sweating horses heave and strain; The crows with thick, high note Break black across the windless land, Fade off and are remote. Oh, new days, yet long known and old! Lo, as we look about, This immemorial act of faith, That takes the heart from doubt! Kingdoms decay and creeds are not, Yet still the plowman goes Down the spring fields, so he may make Ready for him that sows. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...LEONARDO'S 'MONNA LISA' by EDWARD DOWDEN THE HILL WIFE: THE SMILE by ROBERT FROST THE FLIGHT OF THE GODDESS by CELIA THAXTER THE ACHARNIANS: IN PRAISE OF THE POET by ARISTOPHANES EXPECTATION by GLADYS BRIERLY ASHOUR REMEMBER WITH A SONG by STEWART ATKINS LEANDER DROWNED by PHILIP AYRES THE OLD CAMP; WRITTEN IN A ROMAN FORTIFICATION IN BAVARIA by WILLIAM EDMONSTOUNE AYTOUN |