The sowers

Now horses' hooves are treading earth again

To start the wheat from darkness into day,

And along the heavy field go seven men

With hands on ploughs and eyes on furrowing clay.

Six of the men are old; but one, a boy,

Knows in his heart that more than fields are sown --

For spring is ploughing heaven with rows of joy

In the voice of one high bird, singing alone.