On that he called his own. At early spring
Each with a shining share upturned the soil
And gave it to the sun, the wind, the shower.
Thenceforth we rested not. Busily we wrought
And wiped our briny brows ’neath burning suns,
Biding the time of one far-off event.
At summer’s end we each one came at last
To find our recompense. Each had his own,
The end for which he’d toiled. Through all those days
My only thought had been no weeds should grow,