THE NEW HUSBANDMAN

Brother that ploughs the furrow I late ploughed,

God give thee grace, and fruitful harvesting,

Tis fair sweet earth, be it under sun or cloud,

And all about it ever the birds sing.

Yet do I pray your seed fares not as mine

That sowed there stars along with good white grain,

But reaped thereof — be better fortune thine —

Nettles and bitter herbs, for all my gain.

Inclement seasons and black winds, perchance,

Poisoned and soured the fragrant fecund soil,

Till I sowed poppies‘ gainst remembrance,

And took to other furrows my laughing toil.

And other men as I that ploughed before

Shall watch thy harvest, trusting thou mayst reap

Where we have sown, and on your threshing floor

Have honest grain within thy barns to keep.