The Plough
Richard Hengist Horne
A landscape in Berkshire
Above yon sombre swell of land
Thou seest the dawn’s grave orange hue,
With one pale streak like yellow sand,
And over that a vein of blue.
The air is cold above the woods;
All silent is the earth and sky,
Except with his own lonely moods
The blackbird holds a colloquy.
Over the broad hill creeps a beam,
Like hope that gilds a good man’s brow,
And now ascends the nostril-stream
Of stalwart horses come to plough.
Ye rigid Ploughmen, bear in mind
Your labor is for future hours!
Advance—spare not—nor look behind:
Plough deep and straight with all your powers.
Many poets have written poems about Berkshire.
