Slowly the black earth gains upon the yellow, And the caked hill-side is ribbed soft with furrows. Turn now again, with voice and staff, my ploughman, Guiding thy oxen. Lift the great ploughshare, clear the stones and brambles, Plant it the deeper, with thy foot upon it, Uprooting all the flowering weeds that bring not Food to thy children. Patience is good for man and beast, and labour Hardens to sorrow and the frost of winter. Turn then again, in the brave hope of harvest, Singing to heaven. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...AT DOVER CLIFFS, JULY 20, 1787 by WILLIAM LISLE BOWLES THE FORGOTTEN GRAVE by EMILY DICKINSON THE RUSTIC LAD'S LAMENT IN THE TOWN by DAVID MACBETH MOIR PER PACEM AD LUCEM by ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER SONNET: 54 by WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE A BURIAL-PLACE by WILLIAM ALLINGHAM |