THE PLOW 



BY V. F. BOYSON 

 [By courtesy Everybody's Magazine.} 



I am a worker. 



Sleep on and take your rest 



Though my sharp coulter shows white in the dawn: 



Beating through wind and rain, 



Furrowing hill and plain 



Till twilight dims the west 



And I stand darkly against the night sky. 



I am a worker, I, the plow. 



I feed the peoples. 



Eagerly wait on me 



High-born and low-born, pale children of want: 



Kingdoms may rise and wane, 



War claim her tithe of slain, 



Hands are outstretched to me. 



Master of men am I, seeming a slave, 



I feed the peoples, I, the plow. 



I prove God's word true 



Toiling that earth may give 



Fruit men shall gather with songs in the sun. 



Where sleeps the hidden grain 



Corn-fields shall wave again; 



Showing that while men live 



Nor seed nor harvest time ever will cease. 



I prove God's words true, I, the plow. 



