Fourteen shining stacks of hay,
Six owls, nine-and-twenty crows,
Fifteen hundred ancient woes,
Three sheep grazing on the hill,
Beneath five sycamores,
Fat cows munching in a field
All in twos and fours,
Fourteen shining stacks of hay,
My three lovely children, one
Mother laughing like the sun,
Sweetheart laughing like the sun
When the baby laughters run.
Now the goal I sought is won,
Sweetheart laughing like the sun,
Now the goal I sought is won,
Sweet, my song is done.
PLOUGHMAN AT THE PLOUGH
He behind the straight plough stands
Stalwart, firm shafts in firm hands.
Naught he cares for wars and naught
For the fierce disease of thought.
Only for the winds, the sheer
Naked impulse of the year,
Only for the soil which stares
Clean into God's face he cares.
In the stark might of his deed
There is more than art or creed;
In his wrist more strength is hid
Than the monstrous Pyramid;