Sitting in a porchway cool,
Sunlight, I see, dying fast,
Twilight hastens on to rule.
Working hours have well-nigh past.
Shadows run across the lands:
But a sower lingers still,
Old, in rags, he patient stands.
Looking on, I feel a thrill.
Black and high, his silhouette
Dominates the furrows deep!
Now to sow the task is set.
Soon shall come a time to reap.
Marches he along the plain
To and fro, and scatters wide
From his hands the precious grain;
Muse I, as I see him stride.
Darkness deepens. Fades the light.
Now his gestures to mine eyes
Are august; and strange, – his height
Seems to touch the starry skies
Robert Frost
(1874 – 1963)
William Shakespeare
(1564 – 1616)
Maya Angelou
(1928 – 2014)
Pablo Neruda
(1904 – 1973)
Emily Dickinson
(1830 – 1886)
Langston Hughes
(1901 – 1967)
Rabindranath Tagore
(1861 – 1941)
William Wordsworth
(1770 – 1850)
Shel Silverstein
(1930 – 1999)
William Blake
(1757 – 1827)
Leave a Reply