Classic Poem

By Mahlon Leonard Fisher

Weary, they plod the ploughlands of the World.
Wherever turf is turned their hooves have pressed.
Gladly the great Earth-mother gives her breast
For them to trample — her pure bosom, pearled
With dews of innumerable mornings. Where were furled
Slit pitiful flags, their passing stills dismay:
Yoke-ridden, mute, Peace binds on them her bay. —
For this the goad, the lash, the curse age-hurled!
Patient (Ah, theirs the patient eyes of Christ!),
They tread the centuries. Behind them flows
The furrowed glebe, and hath since Egypt rose,
Starlike, above the Nile. They bide the tryst
Man hath appointed; till he dig their graves,
Serve him, complaintless, who hath made them slaves.