C.D. Warner, et al., comp. The Library of the World’s Best Literature.
An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.

The Sower

From ‘Songs of Toil’: Translation of John Eliot Bowen

BENEATH the mild sun vanish the vapor’s last wet traces,

And for the autumn sowing the mellow soil lies steeping;

The stubble fires have faded, and ended is the reaping;

The piercing plow has leveled the rough resisting places.

The solitary sower along the brown field paces,—

Two steps and then a handful, a rhythmic motion keeping;

The eager sparrows follow, now pecking and now peeping.

He sows; but all the increase accomplished by God’s grace is.

And whether frost be fatal or drought be devastating,

The blades rise green and slender for springtime winds to flutter,

As time of golden harvest the coming fall awaiting.

None see the silent yearnings the sower’s lips half utter,

The carking care he suffers, distressing thoughts creating.

With steady hand he paces afield without a mutter.