The Man Digging

The isle was barren. Far as hawk may scan In moors it roll’d up to a headland bare Save for one narrow patch, by ceaseless care Sumptuous with corn. Against the sky a Man Digging the waste I saw,—bow’d veteran A stubborn spade he drave in stubborn ground And root and rock flung sheer without a sound Over the bleak edge.... Then anew began.

“You, who have lodged in the teeth of the abyss Your cabin low, and triumph rich as this Wrung from the ocean-bitter mountain side, What help’d you most to bring such treasure out?” He stood, and after scrutiny replied, “The thing on which I lean, the Spade of Doubt.”