Gordon Bottomley

UNDER the long fell’s stony eaves

The ploughman, going up and down,

Ridge after ridge man’s tide-mark leaves,

And turn the hard gray soil to brown.

Striding, he measures out the earth

In lines of life, to rain and sun;

And every year that comes to birth

Sees him still striding on and on.

The seasons change, and then return;

Yet still, in blind unsparing ways,

However I may shrink or yearn,

The ploughman measures out my days.

His acre brought forth roots last year;

This year it bears the gleamy grain;

Next spring shall seedling grass appear:

Then roots and corn and grass again.

Five times the young corn’s pallid green

I have seen spread and change and thrill;

Five times the reapers I have seen

Go creeping up the far-off hill:

And, as the unknowing ploughman climbs

Slowly and inveterately,

I wonder long how many times

The corn will spring again for me.