Name me his mate!
Hate.
What is their palace?
Malice.
What are their crowns?
Frowns.
Show me the way!
Nay;
One from above,
Greater than Wrath,
Stands in thy path.
Who is he?—Love!
THE PLOUGHMAN
The upper and the lower springs,
The summer-fountains fail;
A frowning sky his challenge flings
With thunder through the hail;
The autumn holds her mantle-folds
To veil a pallid brow—
She pities me and mourns to see
My pain upon the plough:
For I must down the furrow fare
And cleave the clod with sharpened share.
Witless of wind that finds my face,
I lean against the blast
And plough to my appointed place—
Yon sapling like a mast;
I plough this way till shut of day,
Steady upon the mark;
Reckless of cold, the handles hold
From dawn until the dark—
This thing my duty: cleave the clod,
Ploughing the field alone with God!