Slowly the black earth gains upon the yellow, And the caked hill-side is ribbed soft with furrows. Turn now again, with voice and staff, my ploughman, Guiding thy oxen. Lift the great ploughshare, clear the stones and brambles, Plant it the deeper, with thy foot upon it, Uprooting all the flowering weeds that bring not Food to thy children. Patience is good for man and beast, and labour Hardens to sorrow and the frost of winter. Turn then again, in the brave hope of harvest, Singing to heaven. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...DR. SCUDDER'S CLINICAL LECTURE by EDGAR LEE MASTERS BEDTIME by FRANCIS ROBERT ST. CLAIR ERSKINE AUTUMN: A DIRGE by PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY CHARLES LAMB by PAKENHAM THOMAS BEATTY QUATRAIN by CHARLES GRANGER BLANDEN LOVE'S REASONS by WILLIAM BROWNE (1591-1643) |