Tuesday, 19 April 2011

The Song of the Sower by Godfrey Blount

What time with hand and heart aglow
The sower goeth forth to sow,

Supine within her purple bed
Naked the idle earth lies dead;

He scatters with an open hand,
His burning words fall on the land,

To melt the cruel clods, and save
The maiden from a living grave.

See all her acres, fetter-freed,
In hungry furrows catch the seed.

Deep in her heart the earth conceives
The advent of a million leaves.

Then first she wraps a restless brood
In swaddling-clothes occult and crude;
from Blount, Godfrey, Arbor Vitae, Fifield, 1899

Like motes in sunbeams soon they fly,
Ripening beneath their Maker's eye,

To dance about our feet and sing
The rapturous inrush of the spring.

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