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!