Dull low-hung clouds press downward fold on fold,
Sharp cutting blasts of chilling mist drive keen:
Sodden and damp the fields, and black between
Gray breadths of stubble lies the upturned mold.
Bravely against the blasts of stinging rain
The weary plowman toils, his head bent low;
Chill cling his garments, painfully and slow,
Soil-clogged his weary feet plod on amain.
Night presses on, and darker grows the gloom,
The wind more chill; but in his rugged breast
Faints not his sturdy heart. For clear and bright
From out his cottage, from the cheery room
Where wife and children wait, and well-earned rest,
The evening lamp bodes shelter from the night.
Schuyler W. Miller
The Kiote, December 1899