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 grace;
Let the same hand that gives the seed
Provide a fruitful place.

William Cowper

William Cowper was an English poet and hymnodist known for his contributions to English literature and the Evangelical revival of the 18th century. He suffered from periods of severe depression and mental illness, which influenced much of his work. Despite his struggles, Cowper produced notable works including 'Olney Hymns' in collaboration with John Newton and 'The Task,' which gained considerable popularity. His poetry is often characterized by its introspective, religious, and sometimes melancholic themes.

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English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

The Sower. (Little Poems In Prose.)

1. Over a boundless plain went a man, carrying seed.

2. His face was blackened by sun and rugged from tempest, scarred and distorted by pain. Naked to the loins, his back was ridged with furrows, his breast was plowed with stripes.

3. From his hand dropped the fecund seed.

4. And behold, instantly started from the prepared soil a blade, a sheaf, a springing trunk, a myriad-branching, cloud-aspiring tree. Its arms touched the ends of the horizon, the heavens were darkened with its shadow.

5. It bare blossoms of gold and blossoms of blood, fruitage of health and fruitage of poison; birds sang amid its foliage, and a serpent was coiled about its stem.

6. Under its branches a divinely beautiful man, crowned with thorns, was nailed to a cross.

7. And the tree put forth treachero...

Emma Lazarus

Wild Oats.

Oh gay young husbandmen would you be sure of a crop
Upspringing rankly, an abundant and bountiful yield?
Go forth in the morning, and sow on your life's broad field
This pleasantly odorous seed, then smooth the ground on top,
Or leave it rough, with the utmost undeceit,
Never you fear, it will thriftily thrive and grow,
Loading the harvest plain beneath your feet,
With the ripened sheaves of shame, remorse, and woe.

You have but to sow the seed, no care will it want,
For he who soweth tares while the husbandman sleeps
Taketh unwearied pains, a vigilant guard he keeps
Tirelessly watching, and tending each evil plant.
These are his pleasure gardens, leased to him through time
Where he walketh to and fro, chanting a demon song;
Tending with ghastly fingers, the scarl...

Marietta Holley

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

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

Our Field Is The World.

Our field is the world! - let us forth to the sowing,
    O'er valley and mountain, o'er desert and plain,
Beside the still waters through cool meadows flowing,
    O'er regions unblest by the dew and the rain; -
Let us scatter the seed, though in sorrow and weeping,
    Though fields should be verdureless, wintry, and bare,
The Lord of the harvest hath still in His keeping
    Each seed as it falls, and will guard it with care.

Our field is the world! - let us forth to the reaping;
    The long day is waning, the eve draweth nigh;
Faint omens of storm up the heavens are creeping,
    And the sigh of the tempest is heard in the sky; -
The work-hour is brief, but the rest is forever,
    Then stay not for weariness, languor, or pain,
But forth to the harvest with e...

Pamela S. Vining (J. C. Yule)

Mourning And Longing.

The Saviour hides his face!
My spirit thirsts to prove
Renewd supplies of pardoning grace,
And never-fading love.


The favourd souls who know
What glories shine in him,
Pant for his presence as the roe
Pants for the living stream!


What trifles tease me now!
They swarm like summer flies,
They cleave to everything I do,
And swim before my eyes.


How dull the Sabbath-day,
Without the Sabbaths Lord!
How toilsome then to sing and pray,
And wait upon the word!


Of all the truths I hear,
How few delight my taste!
I glean a berry here and there,
But mourn the vintage past.


Yet let me (as I ought)
Still hope to be supplied;
No pleasure else is worth a thought,
Nor shall I be ...

William Cowper