BLACK wings and white in the hollow Follow the track of the team, While the sun from the noon declining Is shining on toil-wet brows. Birds of the mountain and sea-birds Circle and swoop and scream, Searching for spoils of the furrow Where slowly the ploughman ploughs. Make me room, O birds! I am sweeping From the Boughs of Sleeping afar; I have winged thro' the mists of the ages, Where sages drone and drowse; I follow the feet of the Horses That drag the Morning Star, To search in the spoils of the furrow, Where God the Ploughman ploughs. |