Ploughman at the Plough

HE behind the straight plough stands

Stalwart, firm shafts in his hands.

Naught he cares for wars and naught

For the fierce disease of thought.

Only for the winds, the sheer

Naked impule of the year,

Only for the soil which stares

Clean into God's face he cares.

In the stark might of his deed

There is more than art or creed;

In his wrist more strength is hid

Than in the monstrous pyramid;

Stauncher than stern Everest

Be the muscles of his breast;

Not the Atlantic sweeps a flood

Potent as the ploughman's blood.

He, his horse, his ploughshare, these

Are the onnly verities.

Dawn to dusk with God he stands,

The earth poised on his broad hands.

Louis Golding