POETRY.
THE MASTER OF LIFE.
I AM the plough, Footing it painfully
Master of Life, Out from the darkness
Where my sharp coulter leads Into the silence—
Ceases sterility ; Here are my alms for you
And, by my largesses Poured forth abundantly—
Follow the peoples I Summer and winter.
I, in the glimmering dawn. Furrowing circlewise- Leaving wide gaps where Death Swung his black gates anon— Traced the foundations where Rose the proud battlements, Bastions and walls round The City of Life To me for charity
Come the worn mendicants, Seed-time and harvest—
Eat and be glad!
Egypt and Nineveh, Rome and Assyria Were but my pensioners ; I am the permanent, Still stand my kingdoms— Still wave the cornfields— Seeming but slave indeed, Master of Life am I- I am the plough W. G. HOLE.
Previous page
