The Scarecrow

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.