Page:Oxford Book of English Verse 1250-1918.djvu/837

 RALPH WALDO EMERSON

They reckon ill who leave me out;

When me they fly, I am the wings; I am the doubter and the doubt,

And I the hymn the Brahmin sings.

The strong gods pine for my abode, And pine in vain the sacred Seven;

But thou, meek lover of the good!

Find me, and turn thy back on heaven.

��RICHARD HENRY HORNE 68 1 The Plough

A LANDSCAPE IN BERKSHIRE

AiOVE yon sombre swell of land Thou see'st the dawn's grave orange hue, With one pale streak like yellow sand, And over that a vein of blue.

The air is cold above the woods;

All silent is the earth and sky, Except with his own lonely moods

The blackbird holds a colloquy.

Over the broad hill creeps a beam,

Like hope that gilds a good man's brow;

And now ascends the nostril-stream Of stalwart horses come to plough.

Yc rigid Ploughmen, bear in mind

Your labour is for future hours: Advance spare not nor look behind

Plough deep and straight with all your powers!

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