In the Womb

 STILL rests the heavy share on the dark soil:
Upon the black mould thick the dew-damp lies:
The horse waits patient: from his lowly toil
The ploughboy to the morning lifts his eyes.



The unbudding hedgerows dark against day’s fires
Glitter with gold-lit crystals: on the rim
Over the unregarding city’s spires
The lonely beauty shines alone for him.



And day by day the dawn or dark enfolds
And feeds with beauty eyes that cannot see
How in her womb the mighty mother moulds
The infant spirit for eternity.

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