The New Husbandman

Brother that ploughs the furrow I late ploughed,
God give thee grace, and fruitful harvesting,
Tis fair sweet earth, be it under sun or cloud,
And all about it ever the birds sing.

Yet do I pray your seed fares not as mine
That sowed there stars along with good white grain,
But reaped thereof - be better fortune thine -
Nettles and bitter herbs, for all my gain.

Inclement seasons and black winds, perchance,
Poisoned and soured the fragrant fecund soil,
Till I sowed poppies 'gainst remembrance,
And took to other furrows my laughing toil.

And other men as I that ploughed before
Shall watch thy harvest, trusting thou mayst reap
Where we have sown, and on your threshing floor
Have honest grain within thy barns to keep.

Richard Le Gallienne

Richard Le Gallienne was an English author and poet born on January 20, 1866. Known for his lyrical poetry, he was a key figure in the literary circles of the fin de siècle. He contributed to the literary magazine 'The Yellow Book' and was involved with the Rhymers' Club, an influential group of London-based poets. His works often explored themes of beauty, love, and nature. His influence extended to both sides of the Atlantic, and he spent the latter part of his life in the United States, where he continued to write until his death on September 15, 1947.

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English

Suggested Poems

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Seed-Time And Harvest

As o'er his furrowed fields which lie
Beneath a coldly dropping sky,
Yet chill with winter's melted snow,
The husbandman goes forth to sow,
Thus, Freedom, on the bitter blast
The ventures of thy seed we cast,
And trust to warmer sun and rain
To swell the germs and fill the grain.
Who calls thy glorious service hard?
Who deems it not its own reward?
Who, for its trials, counts it less
A cause of praise and thankfulness?
It may not be our lot to wield
The sickle in the ripened field;
Nor ours to hear, on summer eves,
The reaper's song among the sheaves.
Yet where our duty's task is wrought
In unison with God's great thought,
The near and future blend in one,
And whatsoe'er is willed, is done!
And ours the grateful service whence
Comes da...

John Greenleaf Whittier

To The Husbandman.

Smoothly and lightly the golden seed by the furrow is cover'd;

Yet will a deeper one, friend, cover thy bones at the last.
Joyously plough'd and sow'd! Here food all living is budding,

E'en from the side of the tomb Hope will not vanish away.

Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

The Ploughman.

    Friend, mark these muscles; mine's a frame
    Born, grown, and fitted for the toil.
    My father, tiller of the soil,
    Bequeathed them to me with my name.

    Fear work? Nay, many times and oft
    Upon my brow the sweat-bead stands,
    And these two brown and sinewy hands,
    Methinks, were never white or soft.

    I earn my bread and know its worth,
    Through days that chill and days that warm,
    I wrest it with my strong right arm
    From out the bosom of the earth.

    The moneyed man may boast his wealth,
    The high-born boast his pedigree,
    But greater far, it seems to me,
    My heritage of brawn and health.

    My sinews strong, my sturdy frame,
    My independence free and bold -
    Mine is the r...

Jean Blewett

The Sower. - Matthew xiii.3.

Ye sons of earth, prepare the plough,
Break up the fallow ground;
The sower is gone forth to sow,
And scatter blessings round.


The seed that finds a stony soil,
Shoots forth a hasty blade;
But ill repays the sowers toil,
Soon witherd, scorchd, and dead.


The thorny ground is sure to balk
All hopes of harvest there;
We find a tall and sickly stalk,
But not the fruitful ear.


The beaten path and highway side
Receive the trust in vain;
The watchful birds the spoil divide,
And pick up all the grain.


But where the Lord of grace and power
Has blessd the happy field,
How plenteous is the golden store
The deep-wrought furrows yield!


Father of mercies, we have need
Of thy preparing g...

William Cowper

The Ploughman And His Sons.

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The farmer's patient care and toil
Are oftener wanting than the soil.

A wealthy ploughman drawing near his end,
Call'd in his sons apart from every friend,
And said, 'When of your sire bereft,
The heritage our fathers left
Guard well, nor sell a single field.
A treasure in it is conceal'd:
The place, precisely, I don't know,
But industry will serve to show.
The harvest past, Time's forelock take,
And search with plough, and spade, and rake;
Turn over every inch of sod,
Nor leave unsearch'd a single clod.'
The father died. The sons - and not in vain -
Turn'd o'er the soil, and o'er again;
That year their acres bore
More grain than e'er before.
Though hidden money found they none,
Yet had their father wisely done,

Jean de La Fontaine

The Ploughman

Anniversary Of The Berkshire Agricultural Society, October 4, 1849

Clear the brown path, to meet his coulter's gleam!
Lo! on he comes, behind his smoking team,
With toil's bright dew-drops on his sunburnt brow,
The lord of earth, the hero of the plough!

First in the field before the reddening sun,
Last in the shadows when the day is done,
Line after line, along the bursting sod,
Marks the broad acres where his feet have trod;
Still, where he treads, the stubborn clods divide,
The smooth, fresh furrow opens deep and wide;
Matted and dense the tangled turf upheaves,
Mellow and dark the ridgy cornfield cleaves;
Up the steep hillside, where the laboring train
Slants the long track that scores the level plain;
Through the moist valley, clogged with oozing cl...

Oliver Wendell Holmes