Sir Charles George Douglas Roberts (1860–1943)

A BROWN sad-coloured hill-side, where the soil,

Fresh from the frequent harrow, deep and fine,

Lies bare; no break in the remote sky-line,

Save where a flock of pigeons streams aloft,

Startled from feed in some low-lying croft,

Or far-off spires with yellow of sunset shine;

And here the Sower, unwittingly divine,

Exerts the silent forethought of his toil.

Alone he treads the glebe, his measured stride

Dumb in the yielding soil; and though small joy

Dwell in his heavy face, as spreads the blind

Pale grain from his dispensing palm aside,

This plodding churl grows great in his employ;—

Godlike, he makes provision for mankind.