Classic Poem

The plow, the shining shares, the goad he bore,
The yoke, the pitchfork which the sheaves bestows,
The harrow, seed-bag, and the scythe that mows
Each day the ears which fill the barn's wide floor;

These long-used tools that he can wield no more
Old Parmis to great Rhea now foregoes,
Through whom the seed in sacred joyance grows.
He's fourscore years; for him all tasks are o'er.

For near a century in the burning sun
The coulter he has pushed, yet nought has won.
Though sad his life, remorse now knows him not;

But he is worn with labor, and he dreams
That with the dead toil still may be his lot,
Where Erebus laves the fields with darksome streams.