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Poem by Henry Newbolt A Sower With sanguine looks And rolling walk Among the rooks He loved to stalk, While on the land With gusty laugh From a full hand He scattered chaff. Now that within His spirit sleeps A harvest thin The sickle reaps; But the dumb fields Desire his tread, And no earth yields A wheat more red. Henry Newbolt Henry Newbolt's other poems: 1202 Views |
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