All winter through I bow my headbeneath the driving rain;the North Wind powders me with snowand blows me black again;at midnight 'neath a maze of starsI flame with glittering rime,and stand above the stubble, stiffas mail at morning-prime.
But when that child called Spring, and allhis host of children come,scattering their buds and dew uponthese acres of my home,some rapture in my rags awakes;
I lift void eyes and scanthe sky for crows, those ravening foes,of my strange master,
Man.
I watch him striding lank behindhis clashing team, and knowsoon will the wheat swish body highwhere once lay a sterile snow;soon I shall gaze across a seaof sun-begotten grain,which my unflinching watch hath sealedfor harvest once again.
