For O, ye are too swift, too white,

To follow across the dark!

X

Mist in the valley, yet I saw,

And in my soul I knew

The gleaming City whence I draw

The strength that then I drew,

My misty pathway to pursue

With steady pulse and breath

Through these dim forest-ways of dew

And darkness, life and death.

[Pg 4]

[Pg 4]

A SONG OF THE PLOUGH

I

(Morning.)

Idle, comfortless, bare,

The broad bleak acres lie:

The ploughman guides the sharp ploughshare

Steadily nigh.

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