The husbandman goes forth with faltering step
And dull sad eye; his sweltering team pulls hard
The labouring plough, but the dry earth falls back
As dead, and gives nor fragrant fume, nor clogs
The plough-boy's feet with rich encumbering mould.
The willows have a little tender green,
And swallows cross the creek—the gurgling creek
Now fallen to pools—but, disappointed,
Dash away so swift, and fly so high
We scarce can follow them. Thus all the land