Classic Poem

The golden still November days
Seemed an immortal pause's glow,
And through the light transfiguring haze
White gulls sought Robert at the plough.

Although upon the new-turned soil
December's soddening waves would beat,
He hastened on that Springtime toil
That he might sow his Winter wheat.

One morn I felt my sleeping cease—
Out in the dark farewell was said:
And Robert is across the seas,
So far away he might be dead.

Yet, now that January is nigh,
The Winter wheat's green spikes appear:
How can they keep such urgency
And grow when Robert is not here?