A FIELD of golden wheat there grows, Even to the world's end it goes. Grind, O mill, keep grinding! The wind falters in all the land, The mills on the horizon stand. Grind, O mill, keep grinding! The evening sky turns somber red; Many poor people cry for bread. Grind, O mill, keep grinding! The night's womb holds a storm within; To-morrow shall the task begin. Grind, O mill, keep grinding! The storm shall sweep the fields of earth Until no man cries out for dearth! Grind, O mill, keep grinding! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE WANDERER: 2. IN FRANCE: AUX ITALIENS by EDWARD ROBERT BULWER-LYTTON THE MOTHER IN THE HOUSE by HERMANN HAGEDORN BEFORE MARCHING, AND AFTER (IN MEMORIAM F.W.G.) by THOMAS HARDY THE MYSTIC TRUMPETER by WALT WHITMAN AN APRIL MORNING by WILLIAM WORDSWORTH THE CUCKOO by ALEXANDER ANDERSON |