Seed-Time
Woman of the field,—by the sunset furrow,
Lone-faring woman, woman at the plough,
What of the harrow?—there so near their foreheads.
Can there be harvest, now?
‘My one Belovèd sowed here his body;
Under the furrows that open so red.
All that come home now, have we for our children.—
They will be wanting bread.’
Lone-faring woman, woman at the plough,
What of the harrow?—there so near their foreheads.
Can there be harvest, now?
‘My one Belovèd sowed here his body;
Under the furrows that open so red.
All that come home now, have we for our children.—
They will be wanting bread.’
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