All winter through I bow my head

Beneath the driving rain;

The North wind powders me with snow

And blows me black again;

At midnight 'neath a maze of stars

I flame with glittering rime,

And stand, above the stubble, stiff

As mail at morning-prime.

But when that child, called Spring, and all

His host of children, come,

Scattering their buds and dew upon

Those acres of my home,

Some rapture in my rags awakes;

I lift void eyes and scan

The skies for crows, those ravening foes,

Of my strange master, Man.

I watch him striding lank behind

His clashing team, and know

[Pg 22]

Soon will the wheat swish body high

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