Poems (Forrest)/The worker
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.
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.
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,
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,
Heap the pillows for others! Let their thews grow slack with resting!
The daisies wake to my passing feet as I take to the field again:
I have seen the brown hawk pouncing; the towers of the scrub-hen's nesting;
I have bared my head to the breezes, I have bowed my head to the rain.
The daisies wake to my passing feet as I take to the field again:
I have seen the brown hawk pouncing; the towers of the scrub-hen's nesting;
I have bared my head to the breezes, I have bowed my head to the rain.
Give to the king his purple—that other men have paid for—
The long grass bends before me in the shade of the unclipt bough.
I earn whatever I gather. One boon alone I have prayed for
Until the last red sunset . . . Lord! Keep my hand to the plough!
The long grass bends before me in the shade of the unclipt bough.
I earn whatever I gather. One boon alone I have prayed for
Until the last red sunset . . . Lord! Keep my hand to the plough!