In Divers Tones

by Charles G.D. Roberts

Edited by Tracy Ware




A brown, sad-colored hillside, where the soil,
   Fresh from the frequent harrow, deep and fine,
   Lies bare; no break in the remote sky-line,
Save where a flock of pigeons streams aloft,
Startled from feed in some low-lying croft,
   Or far-off spires with yellow of sunset shine;
   And here the Sower, unwittingly divine,
Exerts the silent forethought of his toil.

Alone he treads the glebe, his measured stride
   Dumb in the yielding soil; and tho’ small joy
      Dwell in his heavy face, as spreads the blind
Pale grain from his dispensing palm aside,
   This plodding churl grows great in his employ;—
      God-like, he makes provision for mankind.