Brown stubble turning across the bright share, Black earth laid down with a straight steady care, Blue sky above, and soft eloquent air Braced with a foretaste of winter, -- and sleep. Slither of wheel and soft jingle of chain, Swing at the furrow's end, plod on again; Down the horizon, a hint of fall rain Counsels no haste; there is none, when you creep. Pensive I sit on the low sulky seat, Turning the stubble of harvested wheat, Tuning my thoughts to the slow muffled beat That the feet of the great patient plow-horses keep. What have I given, or gained, when I've done, -- (Finished, or not, by the grace of the sun), Crossing a mile for a few furrows won? Peace, perhaps? Patience? Cool stillness? Calm sleep? Yes, some of these; and the field, too, is plowed. Fallow it lies, under lowering cloud. So I pass on. But for Spring I am proud, -- Someone will sow it, for someone to reap. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE FALCONER OF GOD by WILLIAM ROSE BENET THE CRUEL MISTRESS by THOMAS CAREW THE PRETTY GIRL OF LOCH DAN by SAMUEL FERGUSON ON THE DEATH OF LITTLE MAHALA ASHCRAFT by JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY THE SUNDEW by ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE |