Two Generations

I turned and gave my strength to woman,

Leaving untilled the stubborn field.

Sinew and soul are gone to win her,

Slow, and most perilous, her yield.

The son I got stood up beside me,

With fire and quiet beauty filled,

He looked upon me, then he looked

Upon the field I had not tilled

He kissed me, and went forth to labour

Where lonely tilth and moorland meet

A gull above the ploughshare hears

The ironic song of our defeat.