THE PLOUGHMAN

The upper and the lower springs, The summer-fountains fail; A frowning sky his challenge flings With thunder through the hail; The autumn holds her mantle-folds To veil a pallid brow— She pities me and mourns to see My pain upon the plough: For I must down the furrow fare And cleave the clod with sharpened share.

Witless of wind that finds my face, I lean against the blast And plough to my appointed place— Yon sapling like a mast; I plough this way till shut of day, Steady upon the mark; Reckless of cold, the handles hold From dawn until the dark— This thing my duty: cleave the clod, Ploughing the field alone with God!