Go down, my son, to the ploughing In fields where the robin runs, And turn the dead leaves under While I listen to the guns. Go down, my son, to the planting, Now nature makes man a seer, And root your faith in sub-soil For death is rumbling near. Go down, my son, to the harvest, The answer to prayers for rain, And I shall come down to find you When blood is on the plain. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TO MAY HOWARD JACKSON - SCULPTOR by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON THE BURIED LADY by PAUL VALERY TO MRS. MARTHA BLOUNT (ON HER BIRTHDAY, 1723) by ALEXANDER POPE HENDECASYLLABICS by ALFRED TENNYSON HYMN TO SANTA RITA; THE PATRON SAINT OF THE IMPOSSIBLE by ALVEY AUGUSTUS ADEE THE ADIEU, TO A FRIEND LEAVING SUFFOLK by BERNARD BARTON SANDY STAR: 1. SCULPTURED WORSHIP by WILLIAM STANLEY BRAITHWAITE THE WANDERER: 1. IN ITALY: THE MAGIC LAND by EDWARD ROBERT BULWER-LYTTON |