Classic Poem

What pent-up fury in those arms,
Red gilded by the sun's last breath!
The spade along the ridges runs
As if it had a race with death.

The clods fly right: the clods fly left:
The ridges rise on either side,
The tireless fury is not spent,
Though the fierce sunset long has died.

The strength which tossed the hills on high,
And rent the stormy seas apart,
Is still within those mighty limbs,
Still stirs the dreams of that wild heart.