The Sower

Sitting in a porchway cool, Sunlight, I see, dying fast, Twilight hastens on to rule. Working hours have well-nigh past. Shadows run across the lands: But a sower lingers still, Old, in rags, he patient stands. Looking on, I feel a thrill. Black and high, his silhouette Dominates the furrows deep! Now to sow the task is set. Soon shall come a time to reap. Marches he along the plain To and fro, and scatters wide From his hands the precious grain; Muse I, as I see him stride. Darkness deepens. Fades the light. Now his gestures to mine eyes Are august; and strange, - his height Seems to touch the starry skies