THE FIRST PLOUGHING

Calls the crow from the pine-tree top When the April air is still. He calls to the farmer hitching his team In the farmyard under the hill. "Come up," he cries, "come out and come up, For the high field's ripe to till. Don't wait for word from the dandelion Or leave from the daffodil." Cheeps the flycatcher—"Here old earth Warms up in the April sun; And the first ephemera, wings yet wet, From the mould creep one by one. Under the fence where the flies frequent Is the earliest gossamer spun. Come up from the damp of the valley lands, For here the winter's done." Whistles the high-hole out of the grove His summoning loud and clear: "Chilly it may be down your way But the high south field has cheer. On the sunward side of the chestnut stump The woodgrubs wake and appear. Come out to your ploughing, come up to your ploughing, The time for ploughing is here." Then dips the coulter and drives the share, And the furrows faintly steam. The crow drifts furtively down from the pine To follow the clanking team. The flycatcher tumbles, the high-hole darts In the young noon's yellow gleam; And wholesome sweet the smell of the sod Upturned from its winter's dream.