Classic Poem

The dull ox, Sorrow, treads my heart,
Dragging the harrow, Pain,
And turning the old year's tillage
Under the soil again.
So, well do I know the Tiller
Will bring once more the grain:
For never a grief comes to the strong—
Or dull despair's benumbing wrong—
But from them spring a budding throng
Of seeds, for new life fain.

So heavily do I let the hoofs
Trample the deeps of me;
For only thus is spirit
Brought to fecundity.
But when the ox is stabled
And the harrow set aside,
With calm I watch a new world grow,
Sweetly green, up out of woe,
And, glad of the Tiller, then I know
He too is satisfied.