Page:The ascent of man by Blind, Mathilde.djvu/126

114 For now the big-thewed horses, toiling slow
 * In straining couples yoked,

Patiently dragged the ploughshare to and fro
 * Till their wet haunches smoked.

Till the stiff acre, broken into clods.
 * Bruised by the harrow's tooth,

Lay lightly shaken, with its humid sods
 * Ranged into furrows smooth.

There looming lone, from rise to set of sun,
 * Without or pause or speed,

Solemnly striding by the furrows dun,
 * The sower sows the seed.

The sower sows the seed, which mouldering,
 * Deep coffined in the earth,

Is buried now, but with the future spring
 * Will quicken into birth.