And at sunset Habberton stands alone,
And strains at the weight of a buried stone.
“Corn shall sprout from the stubborn clay,
For the rest has moldered with years away.”
The stones are rolled to the edge of the fen.
He turns to the stilts of the plow again.
His daughter nears where the earth lies red,
And swiftly the furrow drives ahead.
Till the sharp blade crashes through crunching bone.
And a white thing rolls where the clods are thrown.