I do not murmur at the Lord

I do not murmur at the Lord, I do not murmur at a soul, I fool myself in my despair And sing as well. For I will plough My meadow, my poor, humble field, This word of mine; a harvest rich Will come some day from it. I fool Myself, my own poor, humble person And no one else, as I can see. Be thou ploughed, my humble meadow, From the top to bottom. Be thou planted, this black meadow With the shining freedom. Be thou ploughed, and well turned over, Let the soil be levelled. Be thou sown with seed most fertile, Watered by good fortune. Be thou turned in all directions, Ever fertile meadow. Be not sown with words unmeaning But with reason, meadow. Men will come to reap the harvest In a happy moment— Be well worked and be well levelled, Poor and barren meadow. Do I not fool myself again With this fantastic word of hope? I do! But it is better far To fool myself, my very self, Than live at peace with my cruel foe And vainly murmur at the Lord.