The Tilling

The dull ox, Sorrow, treads my heart, Dragging the harrow, Pain, And turning the old year's tillage Under the sod again. So, well do I know the Tiller Will bring once more the grain; For grief comes never to the strong— Nor dull despair's benumbing wrong— But from them spring a hidden throng Of seeds, for new life fain.

So heavily do I let the hoofs Trample the deeps of me; For only thus is spirit Brought to fecundity. But when the ox is stabled And the harrow set aside, With calm I watch a new world grow, Sweetly green, up out of woe, And, glad of the Tiller, then I know He too is satisfied.