  A brown, sad-coloured hillside, where the soil Fresh from the frequent harrow, deep and fine, Lies bare; no break in the remote sky-line, Save where a flock of pigeons streams aloft, Startled from feed in some low-lying croft, Or far-off spires with yellow of sunset shine; And here the Sower, unwittingly divine, Exerts the silent forethought of his toil. Alone he treads the glebe, his measured stride Dumb in the yielding soil; and though small joy Dwell in his heavy face, as spreads the blind Pale grain from his dispensing palm aside, This plodding churl grows great in his employ;— Godlike, he makes provision for mankind. |
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