Classic Poem

Patient-hearted, the English set their hands to the ploughs;
Most slowly the share-blades turn up the rich earth to the sky,
Till the long furrows end where the end of the earth allows,
And new dawns gladden the dust that blows where their horses ply.

Not sudden, like other nations, but utterly patient have wended
The toilers of England their way to the ploughing and reaping;
And many remain, and become as the dust that they tended,
The masters of earth, who have died for the earth in their keeping.