His naked skin clothed in the torrid mist

That puffs in smoke around the patient hooves,

The ploughman drives, a slow somnambulist,

And through the green his crimson furrow grooves.

His heart, more deeply than he wounds the plain,

Long by the rasping share of insult torn,

Red clod, to which the war-cry once was rain

And tribal spears the fatal sheaves of corn,

Lies fallow now. But as the turf divides

I see in the slow progress of his strides

Over the toppled clods and falling flowers,

The timeless, surly patience of the serf

That moves the nearest to the naked earth

And ploughs down palaces, and thrones, and towers.