Thomas Humphry Ward, ed. The English Poets. 1880–1918.rnVol. V. Browning to Rupert Brooke

Richard Henry Hengist Horne (1802–1884)

The Plough

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 Ploughman, bear in mind

Your labour is for future hours:

Advance—spare not—nor look behind—

Plough deep and straight with all your powers.