OCR Text |
Show "My good blade carves the casques of men," So sang Sir Galahad. But not the hint of bloodshed when Gleams blade of farmer lad; It carves a furrow, straight and long. Anr peaceful is its weilder's song. The damp earth turns, as from the prow When forward drives a ship; The horses bend before the plow, Nor need the goading whip; For spring breathes on the breezes free, And beast and man work cheerily. The hill that yesterday was gray And barren in the sun. Is good to look upon today-Mark today-Mark how the furrows run! Oh! there's no blade so fine, I know, As the humblest blade of all the plough! Arthur Chapman. |