The Plowman

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