Archive for December 18th, 2018

Tuesday, 18 December 2018

Song of a Ploughman by Charles Wharton Stork

Cut deep, my share, in the furrows red!
Ploughs may not spare the bones of the dead.

With creak of leather and rattle of chain,
Onward the tugging horses strain

In their fate-like tread with the cleaving plough,
For men must have bread in the world of Now.

The world of Then is under the sod,
With its fleshless laws and its mouldered god.

I must open the field to the sun and rain
Before it can yield its tithe of grain;

And as my stern blade shoulders through,
What if it turn up a bone or two?

From the dark repose where the dead folk lie
Shall flame the rose and billow the rye.


Date: 1927

By: Charles Wharton Stork (1881-1971)