The seeds we sowed a year agoBring in their harvest now:A pleasing straw to those who knowThey must forsake the plough.
God speed the plough! And broad and evenDrive on an honest furrow straight:The schoolmasters of Carlyle's heavenGive prizes at the honours gate.
But who from serious tasks would turnRace with wind, or play with fire,Contempt from honest men shall earn,Emptiness from all desire.
And who with blistered hands turns backShall hear the blackbird chacking dark,When at his shoulder, endless black,Cold fogs obliterate his mark.
In jubilation bonfires blaze:So well entrenched the dragon's teethWe broadcast, Caesar's self shall praiseThe cenotaphs we lie beneath.
