Above yon somber swell of land
— Thou seest 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-steam
— Of stalwart horses come to plow.

Ye rigid plowmen, bear in mind
— Your labor is for future hours!
Advance — spare not — nor look behind —
— Plow deep and straight with all your powers.