The Plough

Above yon sombre swell of land   Thou see'st the dawn's grave orange hue, With one pale streak like yellow sand,   And over that a vein of blue. The air is cold above the woods;   All silent is the earth and sky, Except with his own lonely moods   The blackbird holds a colloquy. Over the broad hill creeps a beam,   Like hope that gilds a good man's brow; And now ascends the nostril-stream   Of stalwart horses come to plough. Ye rigid Ploughmen, bear in mind   Your labour is for future hours: Advance—spare not—nor look behind—   Plough deep and straight with all your powers!