Classic Poem

All day I follow
Watching the swift dark furrow
That curls away before me,
And care not for skies or upturned flowers,
And at the end of the field
Look backward
Ever with discontent.

A stone, a root, a strayed thought
Has warped the line of that furrow —
And urge my horses round again.

Sometimes even before the row is finished
I must look backward;
To find, when I come to the end
That there I swerved.
Unappeased I leave the field,
Expectant, return.

The horses are very patient.
When I tell myself
This time
The ultimate unflawed turning
Is before my share,
They must give up their rest.