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I
(Morning)
Idle, comfortless, bare, The broad bleak acres lie: The ploughman guides the sharp ploughshare Steadily nigh. The big plough-horses lift And climb from the marge of the sea, And the clouds of their breath on the clear wind drift Over the fallow lea. Streaming up with the yoke, Brown as the sweet-smelling loam, Thro' a sun-swept smother of sweat and smoke The two great horses come. Up thro' the raw cold morn They trample and drag and swing; And my dreams are waving with ungrown corn In a far-off spring. It is my soul lies bare Between the hills and the sea: Come, ploughman Life, with thy sharp ploughshare, And plough the field for me. II
(Evening)
Over the darkening plain As the stars regain the sky, Steals the chime of an unseen rein Steadily nigh. Lost in the deepening red The sea has forgotten the shore: The great dark steeds with their muffled tread Draw near once more. To the furrow's end they sweep Like a sombre wave of the sea, Lifting its crest to challenge the deep Hush of Eternity. Still for a moment they stand, Massed on the sun's red death, A surge of bronze, too great, too grand, To endure for more than a breath. Only the billow and stream Of muscle and flank and mane Like darkling mountain-cataracts gleam Gripped in a Titan's rein. Once more from the furrow's end They wheel to the fallow lea, And down the muffled slope descend To the sleeping sea. And the fibrous knots of clay, And the sun-dried clots of earth Cleave, and the sunset cloaks the grey Waste and the stony dearth! O, broad and dusky and sweet, The sunset covers the weald; But my dreams are waving with golden wheat In a still strange field. My soul, my soul lies bare, Between the hills and the sea; Come, ploughman Death, with thy sharp ploughshare, And plough the field for me. |