Brother that ploughs the furrow I late ploughed,
God give thee grace, and fruitful harvesting,
Tis fair sweet earth, be it under sun or cloud,
And all about it ever the birds sing.
Yet do I pray your seed fares not as mine
That sowed there stars along with good white grain,
But reaped thereof — be better fortune thine —
Nettles and bitter herbs, for all my gain.
Inclement seasons and black winds, perchance,
Poisoned and soured the fragrant fecund soil,
Till I sowed poppies‘ gainst remembrance,
And took to other furrows my laughing toil.
And other men as I that ploughed before
Shall watch thy harvest, trusting thou mayst reap
Where we have sown, and on your threshing floor
Have honest grain within thy barns to keep.