The Sowers

By George Sterling

Now it is April, and the plows are out.
  In Manitoba and the vast Ukraine
  The horses of the sun go forth again,
And wide Dakota hears the plowing shout.
Now California prays against the drought,
  And on Manchuria falls the changeless rain.
  The broken earth accepts the pregnant grain,
And men forget the winter and the doubt.

Slowly the clouds pass up the mighty sky
  Whose channeled azure deepens for their snow,
    And softer winds are in the plowboy's hair.
Over the fields he hears a crystal cry,
  As the mad lark, with fenceless fields to sow,
    Flings immemorial music to the air.