Classic Poem

This year the rains have made the plowing late,
And now the edges of the fields are green,
Birch and viburnum crowding close against
Low, gray stone walls, young leaves new washed and clean.

The apple trees are growing faintly pink,
Like some new morning dawning on a hill,
The sharp plow, leaving furrows in its wake
Moves over that dark sea whose waves are still.

Now who shall dream if not the man who plows?
So very near the secret of the earth.
He deals with mystery and plans in faith
The miracles of death and of rebirth.

The catbird in the hedges knows a song
More sweet than other birds the plowman hears.
The old, old earth, new turned, with a fine scent
Exhales the promise of her changeless years.

The slim young alders lean against the wall,
All decked with fringes green and delicate;
The red brown earth lies waiting in the sun,
This year the rains have made the plowing late.