The Farmer

The land was his by right of labor. He did not move upon it so much as through it. Like a plow he was, plunging through trees and cloud and grass. Even the blue clear sky he pierced with his head high, his shoulders braced, as though he allowed if need be he could carry it - it with its heavy sun and rain, and no one better on earth for the job! How many acres he owned I do not know. This only boundary was marked by his eye from a high point, measuring the horizon. And the distant thicket acknowledged him, and the dim posts in the fence row, and not a lark flung its song his way. The land was his by the dawn of day, summoning him; by the arc of evening, telling him homeward. At night when he went out, it seemed the dark gathered around him, and the stars pointed down and found him.

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