Sitting in a porchway cool,Sunlight, I see, dying fast,Twilight hastens on to rule.Working hours have well-nigh past.
Shadows run across the lands:But a sower lingers still,Old, in rags, he patient stands.Looking on, I feel a thrill.
Black and high, his silhouetteDominates the furrows deep!Now to sow the task is set.Soon shall come a time to reap.
Marches he along the plainTo and fro, and scatters wideFrom his hands the precious grain;Muse I, as I see him stride.
Darkness deepens. Fades the light.Now his gestures to mine eyesAre august; and strange, -- his heightSeems to touch the starry skies.
