A Sower

By Sir Henry Newbolt

With sanguine looks

  And rolling walk

Among the rooks

  He loved to stalk,

While on the land

  With gusty laugh

From a full hand

  He scattered chaff.

Now that within

  His spirit sleeps

A harvest thin

  The sickle reaps;

But the dumb fields

  Desire his tread,

And no earth yields

  A wheat more red.