The slow shuttle of husbandry Has plodded up and down Till folds of tilth are lying In ripples of shining brown. The slow thoughts of my ancestry Are moving across my brain, Turning today's deeds under, Laying the old facts plain: How my father strode at his furrowing, My mother's father spun And worked in the mills of weaving; So the image of both is one ... The plough, horses and harnessing Weaving slow lines of thread: My grandfather and my father Sweating for daily bread. |