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RICHARD HENRY HORNE

1803-1884

681                                               The Plough

A LANDSCAPE IN BERKSHIRE

ABOVE yon sombre swell of land
   Thou see’st the dawn’s grave orange hue,
With one pale streak like yellow sand,
   And over that a vein of blue.

The air is cold above the woods;
   All silent is the earth and sky,
Except with his own lonely moods
   The blackbird holds a colloquy.

Over the broad hill creeps a beam,
   Like hope that gilds a good man’s brow;
And now ascends the nostril-stream
   Of stalwart horses come to plough.

Ye rigid Ploughmen, bear in mind
   Your labour is for future hours:
Advance—spare not—nor look behind—
   Plough deep and straight with all your powers!

 

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