THE delicate gray trees stand up There by the fenced ways; One or two are crimson-tipped, And soon will start to blaze. The plowman follows, as of yore, Along the furrows cold, Homeric shape against the boughs; Sharp is the air with mold. The sweating horses heave and strain; The crows with thick, high note Break black across the windless land, Fade off and are remote. Oh, new days, yet long known and old! Lo, as we look about, This immemorial act of faith, That takes the heart from doubt! Kingdoms decay and creeds are not, Yet still the plowman goes Down the spring fields, so he may make Ready for him that sows. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE VANISHING BOAT by EDMUND WILLIAM GOSSE THE VOYAGE TO VINLAND: 3. GUDRIDA'S PROPHECY by JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL WINTER SLEEP by EDITH MATILDA THOMAS TO SAN FRANCISCO by SAMUEL JOHN ALEXANDER OPEN THY HEART by JOHANNA AMBROSIUS CATTERSKILL FALLS by WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT MYSTERY by MAXWELL STRUTHERS BURT TOWARDS DEMOCRACY: PART 3. ELDER SOLDIER IN BROTHERHOOD TO THE YOUNGER by EDWARD CARPENTER |