  Written after seeing Millet’s painting with this title Soon will the lonesome cricket by the stone Begin to hush the night; and lightly blown Field fragrances will fill the fading blue— Old furrow-scents that ancient Eden knew. Soon in the upper twilight will be heard The winging whisper of a homing bird. Who is it coming on the slant brown slope, Touched by the twilight and her mournful hope— Coming with hero step, with rhythmic swing, Where all the bodily motions weave and sing? The grief of the ground is in him, yet the power Of Earth to hide the furrow with the flower. He is the stone rejected, yet the stone Whereon is built metropolis and throne. Out of his toil come all their pompous shows, Their purple luxury and plush repose! The hands that never labor, day nor night. His feet that know only the field’s rough floors Send lordly steps down echoing corridors. Yea, this vicarious toiler at the plow Gives that fine pallor to my lady’s brow. And idle armies with their boom and blare, Flinging their foolish glory on the air— He hides their nakedness, he gives them bed, And by his alms their hungry mouths are fed. Not his the lurching of an aimless clod, For with the august gesture of a god— A gesture that is question and command— He hurls the bread of nations from his hand; And in the passion of the gesture flings His fierce resentment in the face of kings. Treading with solemn joy the upward way; A lusty god that in some crowning hour Will hurl Gray Privilege from the place of power. These are the inevitable steps that make Unreason tremble and Tradition shake. This is the World-Will climbing to its goal, The climb of the unconquerable Soul— Democracy whose sure insurgent stride Jars kingdoms to their ultimate stone of pride.
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