The big plough-horses lift

And climb from the marge of the sea,

And the clouds of their breath on the clear wind drift

Over the fallow lea.

Streaming up with the yoke,

Brown as the sweet-smelling loam,

Thro' a sun-swept smother of sweat and smoke

The two great horses come.

Up thro' the raw cold morn

They trample and drag and swing;

And my dreams are waving with ungrown corn

In a far-off spring.

It is my soul lies bare

Between the hills and the sea:

Come, ploughman Life, with thy sharp ploughshare,

And plough the field for me.

II

(Evening.)

Over the darkening plain

As the stars regain the sky,

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