Across a waste and solitary rise

A ploughman urges his dull team,

A stooped gray figure with prone brow

That plunges bending to the plough

With strong, uneven steps. The stream

Rings and re-echoes with his furious cries.

Sometimes the lowing of a cow, long-drawn,

Comes from far off; and crows in strings

Pass on the upper silences.

A flock of small gray goldfinches,

Flown down with silvery twitterings,

Rustle among the birch-cones and are gone.

This day the season seems like one that heeds,

With fixèd ear and lifted hand,

All moods that yet are known on earth,

All motions that have faintest birth,

If haply she may understand

The utmost inward sense of all her deeds.

IN NOVEMBER

With loitering step and quiet eye,

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