Weary, they plod the ploughlands of the World. Wherever turf is turned their hooves have pressed. Gladly the great Earth-mother gives her breast For them to trample -- her pure bosom, pearled With dews of innumerable mornings. Where were furled Slit pitiful flags, their passing stills dismay: Yoke-ridden, mute, Peace binds on them her bay. -- For this the goad, the lash, the curse age-hurled! Patient (Ah, theirs the patient eyes of Christ!), They tread the centuries. Behind them flows The furrowed glebe, and hath since Egypt rose, Starlike, above the Nile. They bide the tryst Man hath appointed; till he dig their graves, Serve him, complaintless, who hath made them slaves. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TACT by EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON A SEA-SPELL (FOR A PICTURE) by DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI FOR THE YOUNGEST by CHARLES WESLEY ALFARABI; THE WORLD-MAKER. A RHAPSODICAL FRAGMENT by THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES THE SOUL by HARRY RANDOLPH BLYTHE NOT TOO UNIMPORTANT by BERTON BRALEY VERDANT GREEN AND THE CROW by ROBERT BRUCE |