The Plowman

The delicate gray trees stand up
There by the fencèd ways;
One or two are crimson-tipped,
And soon will start to blaze.

The plowman follows, as of yore,
Along the furrows cold,
Homeric shape against the boughs;
Sharp is the air with mold.

The sweating horses heave and strain;
The crows with thick, high note
Break black across the windless land,
Fade off and are remote.

Oh, new days, yet long known and old!
Lo, as we look about,
This immemorial act of faith,
That takes the heart from doubt!

Kingdoms decay and creeds are not,
Yet still the plowman goes
Down the spring fields, so he may make
Ready for him that sows.