THE WORKER
Lord! Keep my hand to the plough, for I love the breath of the furrows: The wall of the cane beyond them, and the green shoots rimming the Ridge,The flaky bank by the river where the chattering piper burrows, And the water spider crosses by way of his phantom bridge.
Keep my hand to the plough! I want to watch from no eyrie Others sweat at the striving and others handle the hoe.What if the west wind chill me, or the sun beat straight and fiery, I am only taking the highway at the pace that the strong men go.
What if my limbs grow weary and my shoulders bow to the toiling, I have seen the glad dawn fingers encircle the East with rose.I want to dream by no window the aim of the Poor Man's moiling, I want to mark with my footstep the road that the worker goes,
