The upper and the lower springs,
The summer-fountains fail;
A frowning sky his challenge flings
With thunder through the hail;
The autumn holds her mantle-folds
To veil a pallid brow —
She pities me and mourns to see
My pain upon the plough:
For I must down the furrow fare
And cleave the clod with sharpened share.
Witless of wind that finds my face,
I lean against the blast
And plough to my appointed place —
Yon sapling like a mast;
I plough this way till shut of day,
Steady upon the mark;
Reckless of cold, the handles hold
From dawn until the dark —
This thing my duty: cleave the clod,
Ploughing the field alone with God!