By idle plough and man’s abandoned labour 
What time the storm-cloud glooms within the 
west, 
The mother leads her nurslings ; gentle neigh¬ 
bour 
Of rustic toil, with all its vague unrest, 
Wrinkling like time earth’s much-enduring face, 
To win benigner moods, more kindly grace. 
Scant though her fare be where wild mustard 
catches 
Each sun-gleam on its golden petals, rare 
The daimies mid the upturned clods she scratches, 
She finds enough, and none draws nigh to 
scare; 
No fierce wings on her young swoop, placid 
creature, 
That finds her peace near man but nearer nature. 
Anon comes gladness when maize-laden valleys 
And richly-clustered vineyards crown the land ; 
Now blither with her brown brood forth she 
sallies 
Sharing earth's plenty, where the brawny band 
Of reapers ply their scythes ; ere long comes 
Death, 
And claims his toll by stubble and grey heath. 
