Classic Poem

Beyond your comfortable bounds
The hard, unbroken earth I plough;
I plough in hope, and hear the sounds
Of happy reapers who shall bow

With sickles 'neath the corn head-high,
And wonder why men waited long
Content with that poor withering rye
Sown on the wearied earth you throng.

I, all unused to toil, will plough
From dawn to dusk the winter through:
For if I do not labour now
A starving race will turn to you

And clamour for the bread that fails
E'en now your bodies to sustain—
And bloody are the fearful tales
Of men who cry for bread in vain.

The earth is hard. I am not strong.
Afar I hear your mocking laughter;
But there is joy the whole day long
In toil for those who shall come after.