A Sower

A poem by Henry Newbolt

With sanguine looks
And rolling walk
Among the rooks
He loved to stalk,

While on the land
With gusty laugh
From a full hand
He scattered chaff.

Now that within
His spirit sleeps
A harvest thin
The sickle reaps;

But the dumb fields
Desire his tread,
And no earth yields
A wheat more red.

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