 | The poet, the fool and the faeries |  |
150
THE PLOUGHMAN
The broken soil, made damp with rain,
Smells good along the bramble lane.
Broad in the afternoon the fields,
Conscious of every seed they hold,
Seem thinking of the harvest-yields,
That soon will turn their brown to gold.
Smells good along the bramble lane.
Broad in the afternoon the fields,
Conscious of every seed they hold,
Seem thinking of the harvest-yields,
That soon will turn their brown to gold.
The coultered earth, the furrowed loam,
Dreams of the coming Harvest-Home:
And, dreaming, breathes of unborn hay,
Of briar and daisy, wheat and weed,
That shall bedeck it on that day
When men shall come and give it heed.
Dreams of the coming Harvest-Home:
And, dreaming, breathes of unborn hay,
Of briar and daisy, wheat and weed,
That shall bedeck it on that day
When men shall come and give it heed.
And he who guides the plunging plough
Across the soil's dark surface now,
What dream is his if any dream?—
Not one that aims at loveliness,
But plenty—like a golden stream—
To make his need and toil far less.
Across the soil's dark surface now,
What dream is his if any dream?—
Not one that aims at loveliness,
But plenty—like a golden stream—
To make his need and toil far less.
His toil and need! that circumvent
The soul, for which the dream was meant,
That lifts the man above the brute,
And frees from bonds of circumstance:—
But it is toil that gives us fruit,
And need is not a thing of chance.
The soul, for which the dream was meant,
That lifts the man above the brute,
And frees from bonds of circumstance:—
But it is toil that gives us fruit,
And need is not a thing of chance.
| The poet, the fool and the faeries | |