| Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). Poetry: A Magazine of Verse. 1912–22. | | | | The Ploughman | | By Gordon Bottomley |
| | | UNDER the long fell’s stony eaves | |
| The ploughman, going up and down, | |
| Ridge after ridge man’s tide-mark leaves, | |
| And turn the hard gray soil to brown. | |
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| Striding, he measures out the earth | 5 |
| In lines of life, to rain and sun; | |
| And every year that comes to birth | |
| Sees him still striding on and on. | |
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| The seasons change, and then return; | |
| Yet still, in blind unsparing ways, | 10 |
| However I may shrink or yearn, | |
| The ploughman measures out my days. | |
| |
| His acre brought forth roots last year; | |
| This year it bears the gleamy grain; | |
| Next spring shall seedling grass appear: | 15 |
| Then roots and corn and grass again. | |
| |
| Five times the young corn’s pallid green | |
| I have seen spread and change and thrill; | |
| Five times the reapers I have seen | |
| Go creeping up the far-off hill: | 20 |
| |
| And, as the unknowing ploughman climbs | |
| Slowly and inveterately, | |
| I wonder long how many times | |
| The corn will spring again for me. | | | | |
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